Something big.
I set that frame back carefully, making sure not to crush any workers, gently pressing the shoulders together so there are no awkward gaps.
I adjust the entrance reducer a notch tighter, giving them a smaller doorway to defend if the storm kicks up debris or if other colonies decide to rob while things are mental.
At the next hive, I repeat the process: smoke, wait, open, assess. This colony is stronger, heavier with honey when I tilt the box to check the weight. I drill down into the brood nest, looking for irregularities.
Same story—healthy brood, good stores, aggravated mood.
“Alright,” I say, mostly to reassure myself. “You’re okay. You’re just cranky about the sky.”
My grandmother always said bees are better forecasters than the weather channel. As a kid, I thought she was joking. But I learned pretty quickly that when the hum shifts like this, you listen.
Ever since I was little, even before I had my own hives, I could feel when the valley was about to shift. My grandmother said I was tuned in to the land, that it was the Kentwood in me.
She used to whisper,“We’re built from prairie wind and honeycomb, Abilene. We feel the world differently. And sometimes, it feels us back.”
Right now, the world is pressing its palm against my sternum, whispering that things are about to change.
I make one last pass along the apiary, squinting at the landing boards. Foragers are coming and going in fits instead of steady streams.
Some pace at the entrance, fanning their wings. A couple of guard bees ping against my veil, more defensive than usual but not outright attacking.
“Yeah, I know,” I murmur. “I don’t like today either.”
I slide the screened bottom board out from under one hive, checking the debris. Bits of wax, a few varroa mites, but well within the range I’ve been monitoring. I tap the board, make a mental reminder to do a sugar roll test in a few days if the weather settles down.
I finish checking the hives and close them carefully, putting the covers back the way I found them, brick on top turned lengthwise instead of crosswise to remind myself I’ve already inspected this yard today.
By the time I’m done, sweat is trickling down my spine even though the sun isn’t fully overhead yet. The storm isn’t here, but it’s circling somewhere, pacing like a restless animal.
I set my smoker in the metal bucket I keep nearby, closing the lid to let it suffocate slowly. Safety first. The last thing this valley needs is a stray ember.
I take one last look at the hives, whisper a promise to keep them safe, then turn toward the house.
The screen door creaks the way it always does, the sound almost comforting in its familiarity. This house has been creaking my whole life, every floorboard, every hinge, every step up to the attic.
My father always promised he’d fix the little things, but he never did. And after my mother died, he seemed to stop noticing the house altogether.
The old farmhouse smells faintly of beeswax and citrus cleaner because I scrubbed the counters before dawn, the way I do when my nerves get too loud. Cleaning gives my hands something to do when my thoughts are too crowded.
I hang my veil by the door and head toward the living room.
The family portrait hangs on the far wall in its crooked wooden frame, always tilting just slightly to the left, no matter how many times I straighten it. I step toward it without thinking, drawn like a moth to something that hurts and heals at the same time.
It’s a photograph from before everything went sideways.
Mom is sitting on a hay bale, smiling in that soft, quiet way she had, sunlight filtered through lace curtains. Her hair is pinned back with one of those tortoiseshell clips she used to collect, and she’s wearing her favorite yellow sundress.
Dad stands behind her with a hand on her shoulder. He looks younger in the photo than I remember him, less tired, less worn down by disappointment and grief. His smile back then was real. Warm. Full of pride.
And there I am, all freckles and braids, sitting on the ground in front of them holding a jar of honey as if I’ve just discovered gold.
My chest tightens. I reach out and touch the frame, my thumb brushing over my mother’s face. The wood is cool against my skin.
Twelve years old, that’s how old I was when everything shattered.
Twelve when the fire took her. Twelve when my father, already fragile, cracked down the middle with grief and drifted away piece by piece until there was nothing left of the man in the photo.
