I Smell Bees

[The prompt this week for my writing group is “I smell _____, and I am.” This is my go at it.]

I smell bees.

            It is August. The grass in our yard is yellow, burned by the sun. Everything is dry, brittle. I would water the lawn but my father says it is a waste of money. He knows about money and there not being enough of it which is why he runs his dime store during the day and sells televisions out of the trunk of his car at night. My mother reminds me that I need to mow the lawn. Mowing seems ridiculous when the grass is so stunted by heat but there are green patches under the trees. That must be what she thinks needs mowing.

            I can’t tell if I smell bees or heat or the remnants of yesterday’s oil treatment on the dirt road in front of our house. They oil the road so the dust doesn’t blow around but the oil is foul and messy. It lies in pools near our mailbox. I reach around the wooden post to open the metal door. Inside is a postcard from my sister in California. There is a picture of palm trees and fancy cars. “You should come visit! It’s great here!” But I am twelve and not going anywhere. I have to mow the lawn.

            The lawnmower is big and green and filled with clots of grass from the last time I mowed. I try to pull the old clumps of grass off the blades but they’re stuck like glue. I wonder if the blades will still cut the grass or just pat it real hard and leave it all standing. Don’t the blades need to be sharp? Or doesn’t it matter? It doesn’t matter. It’s just the mowing that matters. The roar of the lawnmower has to reach my mom on the davenport. I’m not one hundred percent sure that’s where she is at this moment but I’d bet big money on it. She is in depression mode, lying motionless, her face to the wall. When I asked her if she was okay, well, that was when she reminded me to mow the lawn.

            I wind the rope around the lawnmower’s starter and pull. Hard. I wind it again and pull again, this time with two hands. I do this ten more times. The lawnmower sputters but doesn’t turn over. When I try to turn the lawnmower over, the metal burns my hand. I leave the lawnmower lying on its side and go sit in the breezeway. My face is red, I can feel it, and the sweat is dripping in my eyes. I want to go in the kitchen, open the refrigerator, and stand there, maybe get a tray of ice cubes out and dump them in my shirt.

            The bee smell gets stronger. Hotter. Thicker. I can hear the sounds of heat but maybe it’s crickets or heat bugs or some other creature. Not bees. Bees don’t say anything, I don’t think. It’s just my imagination or a wish. That I could be a person who could sniff out weather and birds and insects of all kinds. I look at the lawnmower laying on its side on the yellow grass and I decide to climb a tree.

            It is my favorite tree. It has a split in the branches about halfway up where I can sit and watch things, like cars going back and forth on the oily road. Not today, but sometimes I take a book up in the tree. Today, I just sit. It is green and shady, and I see the grass below the tree is long and needs mowing.

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Photo by Damien TUPINIER on Unsplash