07/02/2025
My dad keeps bees. Today he showed me all the honey he collected this year. He took the lid off a bucket of honey, and on top were three little bees. They were covered in sticky honey and struggling in it. I asked him if we could help them, but he said there was no hope—they surely wouldn’t survive. To him, those little bees were just the usual casualties of honey harvesting.
I asked again if we could at least take them out and end their suffering—after all, he was the one who taught me to ease an animal’s pain when there's no other way. After I wouldn't give up, he finally relented and pulled them out of the bucket. He put them in a small empty container and left it outside. Since he had disturbed the hive, bees were flying all around in agitation.
We placed the three little bees on a bench and left them to their fate. My dad called me a little later to show me what was happening. The three little bees were surrounded by other bees that were cleaning the almost-dead ones, helping them remove all the honey from their bodies. When we returned a bit later, there was only one bee left in the container. The others were still diligently cleaning her.
When it came time to leave, we checked one last time—and the container was empty.
Those three little bees survived because they were surrounded by others who refused to give up on them, bees who wouldn’t let them die.
