Not only Bee's sting
Bees, Childhood, and Derek
My earliest memory of Derek
was a mask—
or what I thought was a mask.
It was a beekeeping hat,
a netted veil that hid his face
like a secret.
They say he had an allotment.
I remember it—
I think I do:
sunlight spilling over the chipped white wood,
a hive and my face kissed by the sun,
bellows puffing smoke
like he was smoking the air itself.
Big gloves.
The hum of bees.
The smell of smoke.
A sinister laugh—
heightened fear,
bees could sting me to death,
or so I thought.
Leaves above me—
orange and green,
fluttering like whispers.
Maybe it’s a dream.
Maybe it’s true.
But it’s mine.
A memory I’ve carried
since I was very small.
Bee Stings
Then came the sting.
Not from bees—
but from words.
One weekend, after the divorce,
I played mum.
Derek pointed at my chest:
“You’ve got bee stings,” he said.
“Shouldn’t you be wearing a bra?”
I was nine. Maybe ten.
Already taller than the others,
feet too big,
body too grown
for the playground puzzle
I never fit.
Mortified.
Embarrassed.
Ashamed of a body
no one warned me would change.
The jumper I wore
couldn’t hide the sting.
Not the bees—
but the burn of being seen
before I understood
what being seen meant.
The Wall
After that,
I built a wall—
brick by brick,
high as a hive,
sealed with silence.
No more masks.
No more smoke.
No more hum.
They were never allowed near me—
not metaphorically,
not physically.
I kept them at reach,
arms stiff,
heart locked.
I never let my hair down.
Not for them.
Not for anyone.
The sting stayed.
Not from bees—
but from being seen
too soon,
too sharply.
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