Bee sting

I got stung by a bee for the first time in second grade. I was out in the fields with no shoes, frolicking around and practicing my gymnastics while looking for a four leaf clover at the same time.

It started as a pinch, then a burning hot sensation as I fell to the ground and examined my foot.

A white dot was forming around a little brown splinter-looking thing on my heel.

“Ouch.”

I hobbled over to my teacher who sent me to the nurses office.

When I got there, the nurse took a card and masterfully scraped the sting out of my foot, patched it up then gave me ice.

“How did you even get stung there?”

“I was barefoot on the lower fields.”

“Ah… must have been one angry bee. Did you know that bees die after they sting something?”

I felt the blood drain out of my face.

“They die?”

“Yup! Now go along to your next class.”

I felt worse coming out of the nurses than when I came in. I had to stop at the benches right outside to process this information.

This bee just sacrificed its life to sting me and all because I was doing gymnastics and dancing and looking for four leaf clovers.

I put my hand over my dear heart, and vowed to be more careful on the fields so that the bees don’t have to die trying to collect pollen from the flowers.

I didn’t even care about the sting anymore; all I could think about was the dead bee on the field. Did it die instantly? Slowly? Did the bee feel pain? Why did it die?

I couldn’t come to terms with the fact that a bee would sting me, probably knowing that it will die.

Knowing this metallic tendency of nature, I, as the big friendly giant, also vowed that day to be kinder to nature and protect them from their self-sacrificial instincts. They shouldn’t have to die for the sake of me doing cartwheels. That just ain’t right.