Six months had passed since Denise had called Mia, her only surviving child.
            She smirked, the image of a small redhead with unruly curls, her jaw set in a pout and tiny fists clenched “No dress mummy … I hate dresses.”
            An hour of coaxing, whispering gentle words like one might to a spooked colt—all to no avail. No, her daughter would never make the first move.
            Recollections of the words that stung had long since evaporated, leaving an empty void she filled with a routine that surrounded her in a bubble of one. At first, it allowed her to avoid the truth, but its tendrils wrapped around her heart like a poisonous vine. Until now when time’s relentless march and a heavy burden cornered her.
            Denise dialed the number, her breath constricted at the mechanical click and Mia’s recorded greeting echoing down the line. Her grip faltered, sending the clattering onto the kitchen counter. The long spider-web-like cracks forming over its display mirrored her broken resolve.
            Tremors shook her hands, signs of the diagnosis she could no longer evade. Denise settled into the chair by the kitchen table, her pen poised above the paper before her.

Dear Mia,
I believed I had more time, but isn’t that a mistake we all make? I’m leaving you with the guide I used all those years ago.

            She paused, glancing at the dog-eared book on the table. The one that taught her everything she needed to know. With a sigh, she returned to her letter.

A cherished gift of nurturing my creatures, a healing legacy your father introduced to me when needed most. I can see you reading this letter, asking yourself if my mind has already failed me? It hasn’t. Today I’ve kept the clouds at bay but back to the point. You’ve got more in common with them than you think. While you’re tending to them, I want you to know:
1. No hive thrives without its queen. She gives everyone purpose. While you nurture them, I hope you’ll find that sense of direction you’re missing. Allow them to anchor you like they once did for me.
            Denise’s vision blurred, recalling the rhythmic click of wooden slats while her husband assembled her first beehive. She’d resisted at first, but before long awoke each morning, planting nectar rich shrubs that supported them. Her routine helped pull her from the grief of losing her baby boy.
            She blinked, returning to the uneven scrawl on the page.

2. A colony survives through cooperation. Bees don’t gather nectar for themselves. Like us, they seek connections, because survival isn’t a solitary effort. A life without love, alone, is like an empty hive.

3. They’re guided by instinct, not words. We can learn a lot from that. Trust your intuition and assess more than the words spoken. When people’s actions reveal their true character, believe what they’re showing you and walk away.
Bees protect what matters to them but adapt to the seasons. They swarm, erecting barriers against external threats, but know when to leave to hunt for food. We would benefit from their wisdom, learning when to go versus when to grow.

           Denise’s fingers jerked, and her pen slipped, marking the page with blue ink. Memories of sitting in her doctor’s office flooded back, along with how the chill of the room mirrored the frost blanketing her front lawn. She gritted her teeth, recalling him outlining how Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease would trap her within a mute shell.
           
4. Remember that when a bee stings, it bears a cost. Like them, each interaction we choose comes at a price that we must evaluate for its worth. Be careful of what you give—make sure it merits the toll it takes.

Nurture them as I did, but more importantly, take care of yourself too.

Love, Mum
            Her hand steadied when she lay down the pen, imagining her daughter navigating a world she no longer belonged to.

Louisa Prince is a late bloomer from Melbourne, Australia whose writing centres on family and health. Her work has appeared in CafeLit Magazine, New Plains Review, and Flora Fiction Online.