“They’re so mean,” says my 10 year old sister. She’s been terrified of everything that flies since she got stung by a bee. Once.

“It wasn’t even a bee! It was a wasp!” I begin to say before she cuts me off, insisting that they’re all the same. Every time she hears even the faintest buzzing noise, she runs away screaming and batting at the air like a fish out of water.

“They’re not even necessary!” she cried. This launched me into my typical lecture explaining the food chain and how everything would fall apart without bees. We wouldn’t have plants or produce for other animals to eat so they would disappear and so on. Besides, bees don’t even sting, it’s only the wasps and hornets. She defeatedly muttered under her breath that she still thinks they’re stupid, not wanting to admit that I’m right. The next day, we were walking inside and saw a honey bee. It was only a few feet to her left, minding its own business. I braced myself for the screaming and running but instead, she calmly kept walking.

Furthermore, in my front yard is a pear tree. Every spring, after the bitter cold snow melts away, it blooms white flowers. It stands boldly amongst the deep shades of green and towers over me like a skyscraper. On the first warm day of the year, when the grass is dry and the birds return, I sit in the shade beneath it. It’s one of the first times I go outside after the brutal Wisconsin winter. There’s white petals scattering the grass like poke-a-dots, and the sweet smell of fresh cut grass fills the air. I inhale deeply, taking in my surroundings while paying attention to every detail. Bumblebees lazily bounce from flower to flower and I think about how crazy it is that something that tiny is the reason we have all the beauty in this world.