Bee Balm

There is bee balm growing in my garden, its tall stalks topped with tufts of magenta and ruby red- like the crest of a woodpecker. They lean against the tired brick of my apartment building, splotches of color against a faded brown.I sit vigil for the hummingbirds to visit- waiting so I can see their wings flutter like tiny helicopter propellers, their emerald bodies hovering near the blossoms. Nearby a feeder filled with sugary nectar the color of fruit punch is set for their arrival.I remember when the bee balm grew tall in front of our cottage windows in Maine where my kids and I used to spend summers. Bee balm, say it and it’s a prayer, good for healing the spirit. One morning my son, Aaron, was stung by a bee and I used a paste of baking powder to quell the pain. But it only happened once in all those years. Mostly we saw hummingbirds feast on the spiky blossoms.Just last summer I planted two small bushes of bee balm in my Illinois garden. The earth here is rich, much better for growing flowers and tomatoes than the rocky soil of Maine.Now my bee balm has sprung up magically- almost overnight- like my young adult children who used to pick wild Maine blueberries and eat most of them before they could be dropped into the pancake batter. Seemingly in one short season they are moving to Miami, flying overseas to the steppes of Kyrgyzstan, and finishing a college degree in New York City. Native Americans used bee balm for medicinal purposes; today some naturalists use this flower known as wild bergamot to make potpourri.I use bee balm to remember: how tiny sandy feet stomped up crooked wooden stairs past day lilies and red-tufted bee balm to enter a kitchen and spill their treasures of sea glass and sand dollars onto a round pedestal table; how we sprawled on the hood of our Saturn to watch shooting stars in August, how we made drizzle castles at the edge of Popham Beach. I sit on my chair waiting for the hummingbirds to come, and I remember.