Bee at Peace

I walked out into the backyard this afternon to find N gazing down at a lump on a table with a forlorn look on his face.  "What's up?" I asked.  "You look down."  When he responded his emotion choked voice confirmed my concerns.

"It's a wasp.  I think it's dying."

I looked at the shrivelled form and thought N's choise of tense might already be out of date.  But then one leg gave a spastic jerk and I could see his diagnosis.  "It's so sad," he gasped.  He slid the prone wasp onto a flower petal he had at the ready and held it up to me.  I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to bless it, give it last rites or blow it a kiss.  My indecision was covered, however, because a slight breeze stirred right at that moment and blew the stiffening form off the flower petal and onto the ground.  With an anguished cry N retrived it to its petal.

"Where can I put it so it can rest in peace?" he asked me imploringly.

I looked into the garage and found a few square inches of free space on the freezer chest.  "Put him in here away from the wind," I said.  With great solemnity that wasp was deposited on the freezer top.

"You realize, of course," said I, "that if he were alive and well he'd be trying to sting you right now."

"I know," said N.  He gazed at the prostrate form with his slightly puffy eyes and put the flower over the top of it to give it shelter and privacy.  "But I'd rather it sting me and be alive than not sting me and die."