Telling the Bees.(Poem)

For my father--1910 to 2001

It fell to me to tell the bees, though I had wanted another duty--to be the scribbler at his death, there chart the third day's quickening. But fate said no, it falls to you to tell the bees, the middle daughter. So it was written at your birth. I wanted to keep the fire, working the constant arranging and shifting of the coals under more wood blown into, flaring, my cheeks flushed red, my bed laid down before the fire, myself forgettable among the strangers there who'd come and go. But destiny would not allow it. It falls to you to tell the bees, it said. I might have washed his linens, boiling the death-soiled sheets, using the waters for …