Stung

The creaking of an old fence gate breaks the soothing hum of the garden; an old stone path teases the curious to see where the trail might lead.  Sunflowers sway overhead, nodding in quiet greeting as you pass by. To the right, apple trees bow under the load of their fruit, to the left a bluejay squawks excitedly from the shadows of a cherry tree. A Monarch butterfly dances into view, pirouettes above the lavender and moves to the milkweed beyond.  It’s a familiar place, overgrown, untended but not unloved, you’ve been here before, maybe, so long ago now.  There’s a house ahead, you can see the stairs weathered and inviting; the door is open for you.  There are voices, women, a tv perhaps… Auntie Mame: Oh, Agnes! Here you’ve been...