May doesn’t date men anymore. She dates pollinators. I imagine a world where she and the bees have everything that they need. The bees are in that pollen-drunk state where they roll around in the bottom of a flower, unable to contain their ecstasy. And May, loved in this way, flowers continuously. She has connected to her regrowth.

Befitting the beauty and intricacy of flowers, May features a few different techniques. The color transitions in the large flowers are stabbed felting. Her eyes are made with bullion knot work. Embroidery is difficult. There are some who spend their entire careers working on it. This is my Spring. This is the first blossoming of my bullion work.

The bees May wears are pins that belonged to my grandmother. She had approximately 14,000,000 pieces of cheap, nonsense jewelry. I remember her telling me stories about a character she called “bee baby.” No one else remembers these stories. Was I the only one she told? It feels like I am being gaslit when this happens. I pluck a Spring flower for beauty. May, covered with bees, grows two more.