The Sting

Playing in the bushes at my Grandma’s house was a favorite thing of mine to do during the summer months. Hunting for caterpillars and battling thorns from the roses while walking in the cool damp soil that erupted between my toes with each step.

It would cool them from the early afternoon heat that would be waiting for my boredom to overwhelm me and flush me out into its stale heavy sweltering arms. Gasping for a breath of acclimation through the thick air which hovered below the bottom branches full of wilting leaves. 

Not much could harm me there in the shade and wet ground. A swap cooler hummed in the distance drowning out the warning bell

In a flash the pinch stiffened my hand as fire stormed inside my skin licking under the surface. My finger tips are growing numb as pain shoots up my arm. I’m trembling now with no thoughts coming to mind, finally breaking  my silence when the pain is too much for me to bear on my own. 

“Grandma” “Grandma!” I scream, in a moments time a mud packed hand soothes my aching hand. My breath catches up, and my tears soon dry, I’m not allergic so there’s no need to make a big fuss. But I know some things may come with a pinch of harm to them, and it was good to know that I had a voice at the ready and the confidence in my heart that Grandma is in earshot for when the next sting should come.

Thank you for reading


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