Not enough bees

The first (and last) time I was stung by a bee, was totally my fault.

I was 9 years old, enjoying a sunny afternoon, playing in the garden at Shila’s place.

It was truly one of the best days of my life - care free, we tossed a ball around, drank cold orange juice, laughed. I was so happy. I don’t believe I can recreate this feeling of happiness.

Then at one moment, as I stepping my right foot forward, I felt a very sharp pain and immediate heat. I lifted my foot and there was a bee hanging down and then falling off, back to where it was, on the grass.

I don’t recall exactly if Shila’s mom came and pulled out the sting, perhaps I did it myself, or maybe it just fell off. In any case, we called my home number and 15 minutes later my nanny came over to pick me up. I felt a bit sad, since we could probably have had one hour more of sunlight before dinner, and we could have played more games in the garden.

Almost 30 years have passed since that day. I went to Shila’s house many more times during our time at primary school, and she came over to my house too (although hers was way more fun).

Sometimes when I feel care free, I think about that bee, that I killed by accident, and both of our days were sort of ruined.