The Last Word
written by: Lynn Nicholas
A cold shiver runs down my spine. Someone’s walking on my grave. Such an unsettling superstition. One deep breath to refocus my energy and then an audible exhale. Better. With one hand on the ground for balance, I lean forward and slide the pruning shears into a tangle of stems, careful to avoid cutting delicate sprigs of new growth.
I reach far under a bramble of old, dried stems and scrape out decaying plant debris. The jagged end of a split stalk lampoons the sleeve of my gardening shirt. I wrench loose; it gives way with a resentful crack. New shoots spring free. I imagine their gasps of pleasure as sunshine bathes them in encouragement.
I revel in the earthy scent of my composted garden, sodden from last night’s spring shower. The saturated soil soaks through my jeans, and my achy, arthritic knees protest the clammy wetness. The midday heat begins to up the humidity. I wipe sweat off my forehead with the back of a muddied hand. I forgot to put gardening gloves on, again. My manicurist will roll her eyes at the sad state of my nails, as she tells me I’m incorrigible.
Gardening brings me so much joy in my retirement years. As I cultivate plants, I’m cultivating creativity. A rusty, overturned wheelbarrow will soon become a planter for colorful annuals. Next, I’ll fill whiskey barrels with broad-leafed red and yellow cannas.
Today the spicy scent of purple and white stocks mingles with the heavy perfume of orange blossoms. Hummingbirds zing by, competing for nectar from the bright red “brushes” on the bottlebrush bush. Finches chatter on the hanging feeder, scattering as much seed as they eat. Doves compete on the ground for every dropped sunflower seed. I anticipate the taste of the tea I will make from the red hibiscus flowers.
Almost hidden in the foliage of the mesquite tree high above my head, a hive quivers with activity. Arizona’s native bees are shaking off their winter lethargy. They flow through the garden, impatient to taste the scattered bursts of spring color. Swirling in loopy patterns, some savor the orange cups of the globemallows, others prefer the pale lavender flowers of the rosemary bush. My ears are attuned to the bees’ sounds. A steady drone tells me they’re preoccupied with business and are not annoyed by my presence. I am mindful of their space. I pat the pocket of my work shirt, any hint of misgivings assuaged by the outline of my EpiPen.
I tilt my head. A high-pitched sound rises above the sedate symphony of the worker bees. A few unfocused renegades are playing fighter pilot between the blooms. Probably adolescents filled with spring fever, not yet ready to adopt the more serious work ethic of their more settled seniors.
My allergist, Dr. D, doesn’t appreciate my fascination with bees. I tell him that these are native bees, which rarely sting. They are not the Africanized, bad-tempered bees everyone fears. He gives me his best ‘Doctor Stink Eye.’ I explain that bees are the only living beings that don’t carry any pathogens. I also remind Dr. D of both my PhD and my recent retirement from a long career teaching entomology. He shrugs off both my credentials and the science lesson. He reminds me that I live alone. He warns me that my allergy is serious, and that I should always carry a life-saving EpiPen. I tell him I do, but Dr. D still finds a way to have the last word.
As I work, I maintain a continual telepathic monologue with the bees. I know better than to explain my process to Dr. D., but I have to smile as I picture his raised eyebrows. I tell my bees that every stem I prune promises new growth and blossoms, which will ensure the success of their pollen-gathering business. It’s important to cultivate a respectful demeanor and send out positive thoughts. Bees smell fear, and the scent of it can throw them off balance.
The humidity is rising with the heat, sweat trickling down my chest. So irritating. I tug off my long-sleeved gardening shirt and toss it towards the overturned wheelbarrow. The fabric catches on a splintery wooden handle. A clanging sound reverberates as the shirt hits metal. Oh no! My new cell phone!
As I shift position, my calf hits the business end of a spikey agave, well-hidden under a spreading salvia. Its dagger-like tip pierces my jeans. I struggle to a standing position, but my aging knees buckle in protest. Pitching backward, I land inelegantly, sending a hard spray of crushed granite onto the wheelbarrow.
I sense the change in the energy field before I feel anything—a gathering storm. The first sting barely registers before the second and third hit with pure malevolence. A swirl of winged gold and black sweeps out from under the overturned wheelbarrow. Africanized terrorists hide their hives.
Attracted to the carbon dioxide from my breath, bees cluster around my head. I reach for the EpiPen tucked into the pocket of my work shirt…. Out of the corner of a swollen eye I catch sight of the shirt draped over the wheelbarrow.
My throat tightens. My breath feels ragged. Tears well, and then frustrated anger fills my chest. Anger at these invaders, who will pollute my backyard bees’ gene pool, and at my own stupid carelessness. And worse, now Dr. D will definitely get to have the last word.
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