The Murmur of Bees

by Sofía Segovia

I’m certain I carry my mama and papa in my cells, but also the lavender, the orange blossoms, my mother’s sheets, my grandmother’s calculated footsteps, the toasted pecans, the clunk of the treacherous tile, the sugar caramelizing, the cajeta, the mad cicadas, the smells of old wood, and the polished clay floors. I’m also made of oranges—green, sweet, or rotten; of orange-blossom honey and royal jelly.

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

She could not remedy the shortages. Nor could she stop the

war or the slaughter. What she could do was try to stay sane. The only way she knew how to do that was to keep herself busy with matters of the family and of the town’s poor, to sew constantly, and yes, to plan the annual dance.

And so she concluded that Russia and the rest of the world were closer to home than it seemed.

When the Revolution broke out, Beatriz had felt safe in her little world, in her simple life, shielded by the idea that if you bothered no one, no one would bother you.

Francisco Morales had never been one of those people who go through life saying, See, I told you so. In fact, he hated comments like that—what did they achieve? They were just wasted words, when there was no longer any way to repair the damage.

For the time being, Beatriz was a new, albeit reluctant, accomplice to her daughter’s love life. When they sat at the table, between mouthfuls, Carmen would give her complicit looks and little smiles, to which she was expected to respond in some similar way. The problem was that Beatriz did not understand them; sometimes she wanted to answer, I’m very sorry, I don’t speak that language.

As a young woman, Beatriz had always reflected on how it would feel to grow old. She observed her mother—old fashioned, elderly, diminished, prudish—and wondered if a person woke up one day saying, This is the moment my old age begins. Starting today, my brain will stop tolerating

new ideas, my taste in clothing will stop evolving, my hairstyle will remain the same forevermore, I will read and reread the novels that brought me pleasure in my youth with nostalgia, and I will let the next generation—whom I no longer understand because I only speak “Old”—make my decisions for me, because I have nothing to teach them anymore. I’ll be company for everyone, but little more than that for anyone.

However, not even in her old age would she become anybody’s shadow or be left drifting, at the mercy of other people’s decisions. She would never allow herself to grind to a halt.

when there’s shade, only the idiots walk in the sun.

She had been a mother and . . . What does one call a mother who has lost a child? Amputee? That was how she felt.

the promise that she had once made to no one but herself: not even in her old age would she allow herself to become anyone’s shadow. She would never be set adrift, at the mercy of other people’s decisions. She would never allow herself to stagnate.

“Life offers no guarantees. To anyone. It waits for nobody. It has no consideration for anyone.”

It was a trick; saved-up tears come out sooner or later, and mine came in an explosive crying fit that evening at the performances, as I listened to Marilú Treviño sing the same repertoire as ever, the one I’d liked to hear so much in her voice and in Simonopio’s: the songs I’d only ever listened to in my brother’s company.