I live in an old Spanish house that is small, but the garden is very big. Lots of people love it, and there are three tiers with gravel and wood and pretty stone slabs. There are big pots of lavender, and flowers of all different colors, and shade, and sun, and butterflies and hummingbirds. You can go with your friends to a far-away place and talk, in whispers, about your fears and heart’s desires. Or spy on the neighbors over the treeline. Or you can sit near the adults and listen to the laughter and tinkling glasses and overlapping voices, and feel safe. This year, my mommy got a divorce, so her friend Julie comes over a lot and we have dinner parties, and sometimes I fall asleep at the table against my mommy’s shoulder, listening to the fountain, and voices of the adults, and the stars. In the daytime I sit outside with Mommy and Julie, and drink iced tea in the hot sun and shade, and I noticed so many bees around the fountain. I asked the gardner why, and he said, “Cause it’s hot out. Bees get hot”. This seemed like such a wild idea to me. Who would have thought that bees get hot?