killers

through the crackle and thrum of the baby monitor, my father heard the noise of swarming. a throng of bees had funneled through the ceiling; they stung me in my crib, my brother too. (my mother says she cannot describe how sick she was with terror.) the bees came in through a hole in the ceiling, a ceiling that was otherwise smooth, untarnished and unblemished, painted a shade of white. Above the ceiling was the attic, an unkempt and humid space. it is where our holiday decorations went for storage, where forgotten keepsakes collected dust, where one bare light bulb hung from the rafters, and from that a silver pull cord that directed the filament to either burn incandescent or remain unlit. I do not know how the bees worked their way through the ceiling and into my room; I do knot know if they had been in the attic for any span of time or if their invasion was spontaneous; I do not know why the bees descended at night, a time they reserve for light sleep. but I think this attack is the reason for my fear of any insect with a stinger.

my grandmother is on oxygen. this after a trip to the hospital, another ambulance, a visit from her nurse. when I speak to her on the phone she takes a sharp breath on every eight syllable. her dog, mojo, does not bark.

the day after the bees, my parents called a fumigator to the house. he came by himself in shorts and a shirt. all he had with him was a can of spray, not even a protective mask. that man was a killer, my mother said.

my earliest memory of my grandmother is of her crackly voice.

yes, my father said, he was.