There’s nothing more tragic than getting older but not wiser. I’m surrounded by bitter shriveled bitches. When you are as old as me, fifty days, you can speak your mind. But I’m a grub next to our mother, Phoebe, the queen. She’s been alive forever, at nearly five years. Phoebe means “Radiant One.” She is Goddess to us. As for me, I am a water bearer for our family. Without water, we would starve or get roasted alive. You don’t get to collect water or flower food unless you’ve worked your way up from nurse to housekeeper to architect to bouncer. My brothers said Mom gives the most dangerous work to the oldest ladies like me to get rid of them. Waspshit. Those himbo drones don’t understand work at all. My entire life has been about work. Work gives your life meaning. Lately though, I’ve slowed down. After being hive-bound since hatching, I can’t get enough of the mud and new leaves and the sweet breath of sunshine. Yet, I might never have noticed if not for Beatrice. Beatrice is the sunflower bee I met while foraging for water. She has these gigantic pollen pants! But more stunningly, she built underground tunnels to raise her children all by herself. I’m my own queen. We are all solitary queens in my land, she said. I laughed, at first. We are supposed to be social animals who need a strict hierarchy. Nevertheless, the more I see, the more I know my home is not a cramped honeybee hive, but this puddle-luscious world, this sky. My tummy full of water, my body becoming light.