Sweetness

This brilliant Sunday morning in September finds Sophie winding her way across the lot behind her house, a rectangular plot of land laid out lengthwise, something less than an acre. Strangers might say this piece of earth doesn't amount to much, a stretch of sand rippled by the wind and dotted with clumps of chamisa, cholla, and sage. But what do strangers know? Above and well beyond her floats an ocean of sky, clouds billowing and scudding across a vast blue surface before disappearing to the west. As she makes her way toward her father, Sophie reaches out to finger the tops of the brushy sage, covered now with tiny purple flowers. They're like straw to the touch, so dry they crumble into the cuticles of her nails. When she thrusts her hands into the pockets of her jeans, she deposits papery purple specks in the white seams. Her chin is raised, as though for a stage entrance, her mouth held slightly open. A glob of honey rides, trembling, on the tip of her tongue.

Only moments before, she spotted her father from her second-story window. Sophie's bedroom offers an excellent view of the line of boxes in the foreground and the five bumpy volcanoes on the horizon. The volcanoes are called the Sleeping Sisters - dormant for thousands of years but still not extinct. Her friends who sleep over never fail to take notice. "What the hell are those?" they ask, noses pressed to the pane of glass. For these teenage girls, the Sleeping Sisters have long since ceased to be of interest, but the hives are another matter. The hives resemble small chests of drawers and are all the more arresting because they're painted not white but primary colors - red, green, yellow, and two shades of bright blue. For all the girls know, the boxes hold something precious, and indeed they do, something rich and golden that lures Sophie's father back to her.

For the time being, Jack takes no notice of his daughter's approach. He's busy searching for his queen. "Where are you, little lady?" he mutters, head bent to the frame of brood, bustling with the brown bodies of hundreds of worker bees. His white bee overalls trail the ground - someone's castoffs or else bought to accommodate his belly - and he moves slowly, both to reassure the bees and because its his nature. Beekeepers are a contemplative lot and Jack more than most. When he walks, talks, makes love to his wife or now to his girlfriend, he appears to have all the time in the world.

He doesn't wear a veil, though he keeps one handy on the ground beside him, in case his bees are out of sorts. Just now, he finds it difficult to gauge their mood because he can't see them well enough - they're little more than a blurry mass of movement. He's done it again, come out to the hives without his reading glasses. Pursing his lips, Jack scans the surface of the frame and watches for a path to open. That much he can surely make out. Typically, the workers defer to the queen and scramble over themselves to get out of her way.

Determined to see, Jack holds the frame back, but not far enough to bring their small world into focus. Tiny legs tickle as dozens of bees clamber over his thumbs and index fingers before scurrying back to the security of the wooden frame. They pay him no more mind than he pays his daughter, who's just behind him now. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," he sings to his queen, but it's no good. Even holding it out at arm's length, he can't see for shit. "I need elbow extenders," he mutters to himself.

A few feet from the hives, Sophie stops and stands motionless. The air is still, but an occasional breeze tousles her hair, a mass of brownish black curls bobbing gently about her shoulders, one startling lock of white tangled among them. Sophie's stomach grumbles with hunger...