As I went to climb into my car after school yesterday, I noticed a giant honey bee clinging to my passenger window. Normally, I would have batted it away and then tried to dodge for cover. However, today, I let it “bee.” I slowly opened my Jeep door and sidled into the driver’s seat, pulled the door shut, and for a moment, I just stared at the pollinator. It was the closest I’ve ever gotten to a honey bee, able to take in its every tiny part, without the risk of being stung. Tiny golden hairs erected themselves all over the thorax and abdomen of the insect. Its two antennae, just a sliver of matter, twitched and toggled as it tried to get its bearings. Its wings were like candied sugar, transparent with veins and seemingly fragile to the slightest touch. Sticky brown pads at the tips of its legs helped it grip the glass and steady itself as I revved up the engine and began driving. Assuming this bug would quickly lose grip the more I accelerated, I put the pedal down, ready to disengage this minuscule distraction from my peripheral vision.
My speedometer hit 20. Then 30. Then 40. And by 46 mph, the bee still clung for dear life in the exact same spot on my window. Its wings whipping and fuzz flapping, this hearty being had already traveled 24 miles and 38 minutes with me. When I’d come to a stoplight and decelerate, I’d watch its front right leg peel itself off the glass and twist into the air as if it was waving for me to keep going. The one bulbous eye that I could see mounted atop its head fixated on me, as if we were in staring contest, neither of us daring to move or blink. When the light turned green again, we started to gain speed and my passenger’s sticky arm secured itself back into place, buckling up for the ride.
I had barely made it through the intersection when my eyes noticed a gray sports car ahead, darting in and out of oncoming traffic. My palms tightened around the steering wheel and my heart’s beat intensified, as I realized this car was coming straight towards me from the opposite side of the road. The bee still clutched glass as I screamed and swerved past the shoulder and onto a grassy field. I had missed the driver by a split second. As my chest rose and fell at an alarming pace, I glanced in my rear view mirror, and watched the gray vehicle pinball its way in and out of cars coming down the road.
Less than a mile away from home, here I was haphazardly at a standstill in the middle of a grassy knoll with my head in my hands when it finally hit me. My grandma’s nickname for me was “B.” She never called me Brittani unless she was talking about me to someone else. Grandma was checking in on me. She was the guardian angel “flying” by my side, making sure I got home safely. If it wasn’t for that her “beeing” by my side, who knows if I would’ve been paying attention enough to leave that intersection unscathed.
Something about that bee made me feel comfortable from the moment I saw it. That’s why I didn’t shoe it off my window before I got into my car. Signs from above come in all kind of shapes and sizes. And this fuzzy little sign wanted me to know that despite the “sting” of losing her, she’s always with me, protecting me in the most unexpected ways.
Sincerely,
Britt
I 💯 believe that B was your grandma with you. Reading this gave me goosebumps. It reminds me of that show we talked about years ago, Surviving Death. Our loved ones are always with us and sometimes we are lucky enough to notice.