To the Young Woman with the Bee in Her Hand

We rode the light rail to SeaTac
leaning and alert, trying to catch a glimpse of Rainier–
Tahoma, giver of water. We were traveling through the land
of the Duwamish rightly. Traveling
to the airport,
to see you off.

Facing the center aisle,
bags at your feet; your reflection against the passing land
reminding me of dreams and visions and
other reflections
entirely.

About your age, a young woman
stood next to the doors, two doors that would part, eventually.
Soon even. Two doors belied a hole through which we all will go,
where this other young woman now stood; she held the bar
above her head, bracing herself against the forward motion
of the light rail we took
to see you off.

A bee,
apidae, bombus, bumble bee, down the main aisle and back, dithering,
buzz and bounce against the window. Buzzbzzz. The plump fuzzbee
aimed straight for the young woman by the door, and she saw it coming,
we all did: her arm’s reach, her free hand, palm up, whereupon
the bee set down and landed,
softly. Intently.

As if planned, the train stopped,
two doors parted, a place replaced with space
through which the young woman reached, palm up,
reached just out the door, an offering to the Tukwila station. Gone,
out upon the trackside breeze, the bee. Doors close. Two stops
prior to yours, the train that much lighter, taking us
to the airport,
to see you off.

*Originally published in Cathexis Northwest Press, January 2023, in a slightly different form. Thank you to the editors there.