My grandfather kept bees. By the time I was around, he had mostly abandoned the hive. If he worked on it, I never saw him do it. He always had other projects.

So he left his hive go ferral out in a field behind their house under a lonely willow tree. I’d get close, not too close, and watch them. I was mesmerized by the danger of them but also the need for them.

In my grandparents pantry there were Ball jars of honey. Some jars had honey comb in it. I would pour the honey over biscuits my grandmother made for breakfast. I enjoyed that. It’s a taste I’ve never been able to get back to.

Maybe that’s why I keep this hive. I’ve had as many as seven but as of now, it’s one hive. It’s enough.