Honey ends up in my hair even after I’ve licked my fingers clean.
Peanut butter and honey sandwiches were all that I would eat in elementary school.
My first day of kindergarten I was stung by a bee on my hand after eating a PB&H.
For robbing its hive and leaving remnants of mischief on my small palms.
Red-handed and throbbing I entered my first day of school tearful and full of guilt.
I crushed and killed it as it stung me for stealing from its glistening hive.
My fingers curved inward toward the middle of my palm as a reflex as a defense.
The stinger was stuck when I first raised my hand for permission to be excused.
The school nurse had a comfortable cot I escaped to when I was feeling overly stimulated.
After a certain age I didn’t speak much about what happened to my swollen hive.
Not even my sister knew until I was seventeen and invited to take back the night.
We sat side by side on a stage at Bronson Park where we used to take field trips.
We found burial mounds there and shared our family’s secret.
Our family secret is orange blossom scented, sticky, bitter and it stings in the palm.