The Murmur of Bees

by Sofía Segovia

There are no ghosts in this house, my father would say to me. What you hear are the echoes it has kept to remind us of all those who’ve been here.

I’m made of everything that touched my senses during that time and entered the part of my brain where I keep my memories.

They speak to me as if I didn’t hear them or couldn’t understand them.

friends and strangers—die. He considered it the only certainty that life gave everyone equally: sooner or later, everybody would die.

no rush when it came to bad tidings and that it could wait until the next day.

women can never be fully understood. Their minds are a labyrinth that men are only permitted to glimpse from the outside when they want us to, when they invite us.