Grandpa waved and waved
his arms
as if the libeccio in a
fit of madness
had turned him into a
scarecrow.
The afternoon was still
and breathless,
not a snort of wind, not a
thread of cloud.
It was a bee which Grandpa
was franctically after.
It first buzzed about the
table
when Granny brought the
melon;
it reappeared from
somewhere
when it smelt the grilled
sirloin.
By cheesetime Grandpa was
so red
that he grabbed his empty
glass and
in one swift motion
belljarred the bee in.
It was as surprised as any
of us,
banging on the
lightletting walls.
Wine trickled down and
formed
a circle of red on the
sunstained
plastic cover. All were
amused but I,
I couldn't take my eyes
off the scene,
the tragedy wrought in a
second.
The cutglass patterns drew
crosses of light which
seemed
to dazzle the insect.
After a long while it grew
tired,
or it fell into the purple
ring;
it drank or perhaps
drowned,
tittered, its wings
jerking slowly
refused to carry it
further, or perhaps
they had crushed on the
glass.
The bee circled the rim,
sensing air maybe,
its antennae erratic, its
head rocking;
perhaps still drinking, or
choking
on the spirits trapped
inside.
It remained motionless for
a while.
Grandpa lifted his glass
and filled it,
gulped half of it, his
eyes on the bee.
Watching the bee, which
lay here,
unmoving, playing dead I
hoped.
I had also hoped it had
left its sting
so that Grandpa would
gobble it down.
Neither of these things
were happening.
I looked up and saw him
observe me.
Perhaps he had been
watching me all along.
He took a paper napkin,
scooped up
the dead bee with an
unbrutal motion
of his gigantic hand,
walked
in the scorching summer
sun
to the patch of verbena,
dug a small trench,
dropped the bee in.
When he sat back down
only the disturbed
flowerbed
and the circle of red
bore proof that anything
had ever happened here.
