It’s October and the bees are dying. One is walking feebly around the surface of my patio table. His life is done, his work complete. He walks, no longer able to fly. His rump curls weakly as if trying to find something to plunge his stinger into trying to fulfill his life’s purpose.
It’s October for white male privilege; Caucasian entitlement is tired, old, no longer relevant, retaining its stinger. The future is female, tan, caramel brown, black onyx, and every shade in between. The future relies on living like the bees in the hive; in cooperation, civility, patience, knowledge, truth, compassion, sharing, and most of all love. In the October of my life, I choose the future, always mindful of the stinger.