The Last Bee of Summer

Goldie knew it was coming. She could feel it in the way the wind had changed—cooler now, carrying the smell of wet leaves and woodsmoke instead of clover and warm grass.

She stood at the entrance of the hive, her wings catching the last golden light of an October afternoon. Behind her, her sisters were already settling in, tucking themselves close together, preparing for the long, quiet months ahead. The hive hummed a slower song now, deep and drowsy, like a lullaby sung half-asleep.

But Goldie wasn't ready to go inside. Not yet.

She looked out across the meadow. Most of the flowers were gone. The tall sunflowers had bowed their heavy heads. The clover had turned brown and crinkly. Even the wildflowers along the fence had faded to grey wisps that trembled in the breeze.

But far, far across the field—past the old stone wall, past the creek with its stepping stones, past the crooked apple tree—Goldie could see something. A tiny dot of color. Purple? Yes. Purple.

One last flower.

"Goldie," called her sister Maple from inside the hive. "Come in. It's getting cold."

"I know," said Goldie. "I just need one more flight."

Maple's antennae drooped. "One more? Goldie, the wind is picking up. And you've already been out three times today. Your wings—"

"My wings are fine," Goldie said, even though the left one had a tiny tear near the edge that she tried not to think about. She flexed them once, twice. They still worked. That was enough.

She lifted off.

The wind hit her immediately—not mean, exactly, but pushy, like a big dog that didn't know its own strength. It shoved her sideways. She dipped, corrected, and pushed forward, her wings buzzing so fast they were just a blur of light.

Below her, the meadow rolled past. She flew over a pumpkin patch where a little girl in red boots was choosing the biggest pumpkin she could find. The girl looked up and pointed.

"Mama! A bee! There's still a bee!"

Goldie did a loop, just to show off, and the girl laughed.

The wind pushed harder. Goldie's wings ached, a deep tiredness that went all the way down to her fuzzy body. She thought about turning back. She thought about the warm hive, her sisters all pressed together, the honey they'd worked so hard to store all summer.

But that purple dot was getting closer.

She crossed over the stone wall, dodging a spider web strung between two rocks. The spider, fat and sleepy, didn't even bother to chase her. "Too cold for catching," the spider muttered, pulling a silk blanket tighter around herself.

Goldie flew over the creek. The water was lower now than it had been in July, when she used to stop here to drink from the flat rocks. A frog sat on the biggest stepping stone, looking grumpy.

"Going somewhere?" the frog asked.

"There's a flower," Goldie said. "One more flower."

The frog blinked slowly. "Seems like a lot of trouble for one flower."

Goldie didn't answer. She was already past him.

The crooked apple tree still had a few apples hanging on—small ones, red and russety, too high for anyone to pick. A squirrel was stuffing one into a hole in the trunk.

"Last day for flying, little bee?" the squirrel called, cheeks bulging.

"Maybe," said Goldie.

"Better make it good, then!" the squirrel said, and winked.

And then—there it was.

Growing right at the base of the old fence post, sheltered from the wind by a tumble of warm rocks, was a single wild aster. Purple as a king's robe, with a bright yellow center like a tiny sun.

It was the most beautiful flower Goldie had ever seen.

She landed on it gently, and the stem swayed under her weight. The petals were cool and soft against her feet. She could smell the nectar—faint, not like the rich, heavy sweetness of summer, but delicate, like a whisper of honey.

"Well," said the flower. Its voice was small and clear, like a bell made of glass. "I was hoping someone would come."

"You were waiting?" Goldie asked.

"I bloomed late," said the aster. "Everyone else was already done. The daisies, the black-eyed Susans, the goldenrod—they all finished weeks ago. I thought I'd missed my chance. I thought I'd bloom and nobody would ever visit."

"Well, I'm here," said Goldie.

She settled deeper into the petals and began to work, brushing against the pollen, letting it dust her legs in powdery gold. The nectar was thin and light, but to Goldie it tasted like the whole summer wrapped into one tiny sip—like June mornings and August afternoons and the first warm day of May when everything was just beginning.

"This is delicious," Goldie said.

The aster seemed to stand a little taller. "Really?"

"Best nectar I've had all year."

"Oh, go on."

"I mean it," said Goldie, and she did.

She worked slowly, visiting every part of the flower, making sure not a single grain of pollen was wasted. As she worked, the sun sank lower, painting the sky in stripes of orange and pink and the deepest, warmest red she had ever seen.

"Goldie?" the aster said quietly.

"Yes?"

"Will you remember me? When you're inside all winter?"

Goldie stopped. She looked at the little purple flower, brave and bright against the October sky, blooming even when there was no one around to see it, even when all the other flowers had gone.

"I'll remember you every single day," Goldie said.

The aster's petals fluttered—not from the wind, but from something else. Something like happiness.

Goldie finished her work. Her leg baskets were full of pollen, golden and perfect. She was tired—more tired than she'd ever been. Her torn wing throbbed. The wind was really cold now.

But inside her chest, she felt something warm and bright, like she'd swallowed a tiny piece of the sun.

"Thank you," said the aster.

"Thank you," said Goldie.

She lifted off—wobbly at first, then steady. The wind was behind her now, pushing her home instead of pushing her away, as if it had changed its mind about her. She flew back over the apple tree, where the squirrel had gone inside for the night. She flew over the creek, where the frog had slipped into the water. She flew over the stone wall, where the spider was asleep in her silk blanket.

She flew over the pumpkin patch. The little girl was gone, but the biggest pumpkin was gone too, and in its place was a set of small boot prints in the mud, heading home.

Everyone was heading home.

Goldie reached the hive just as the last sliver of sun dipped below the hills. Maple was waiting at the entrance, her wings fluttering with worry.

"Goldie! I was so worried—oh! Look at all that pollen!"

"From the last flower of the year," Goldie said, crawling inside.

The hive was warm. So warm. Her sisters gathered close, and Goldie shared the pollen, and they stored it away with all the rest—the dandelion pollen from April, the lavender from June, the sunflower gold from August. And now this, the purple aster's gift, tucked in right at the end, like the last page of a wonderful book.

Goldie found her spot in the cluster, pressed between Maple and her sister Clove. Her wings folded down. Her eyes grew heavy.

"Was it worth it?" Maple whispered. "Going all that way for one flower?"

Goldie smiled a bee smile, which is very small but very real.

"It was worth everything," she said.

Outside, the wind blew, and the first frost crept across the meadow, turning everything silver and still. But deep inside the hive, surrounded by the warmth of her family and the sweetness they'd gathered together, Goldie slept.

And she dreamed of purple flowers, blooming brave and bright, just when everyone thought the season was done.