The Bee Sting.

Life, so far, had proved a bit of a mystery.
There was a sweet innocence, a feeling of wellbeing, coupled with no small amount of humour.
I had a feeling that the world was waiting to be explored, and found it fascinating every Friday when the bin lorry came and did its thing. I also recognised the sweet musical tones that signalled the arrival of the ice cream man.
I had been hearing the 'S' word for several months now, and instinctively knew it meant another major life change. My first major change had come when my parents had moved from London back to Dublin, a move that baffled my little brain. I knew I had relatives on both sides of the Irish Sea, and I had known I was Irish when one of my London aunts had arrived distraught one day, after hearing about the assassination of President John F Kennedy.
"Why was aunt Polly so upset?" I remember asking.
My mother answered. "Because President Kennedy was shot."
"Did she know the President?" I asked naively.
"No, but he was an Irish President...in the same way that we're all Irish."
"Aah," I said, as if that explained everything.
There were still questions in my mind. Who had shot him and why?
Along with the 'S' word, new words also abounded, bigger words. "Endless possibilities...limitless opportunities." It all sounded so exciting.
A year and a half into my existence, I had become aware of a new presence in the household, and  knew I had a new baby brother. My recollection included the day he fell out of his pram, not content like myself to stay out in the hot sun. The cries of the infant had reached my ears, making me edgy and panicky. Brotherly love, I supposed.
Air journeys were a bit of a mystery, but it was by air that I returned to Ireland, and I remembered running up and down the aisle. I also remembered that it was the first time I had suffered motion sickness, and  was glad when the plane put down and I was back on terra firma.
There was the promise of meeting my grandparents for the first time, something I was excited about. They were on my father's side, my mothers having passed to their eternal award, and by all accounts passing at way too young an age.
Dublin, of course, had its problems back then. Killer diseases like TB had only recently being eradicated, and the country was slowly emerging from an unemployment slump. My grandfather had been writing to my dad for ages about the new opportunities, and I guess that knocked the London thing on its head.
My grandparents lived off the South Circular near the canal, and I remember being fascinated by that body of water with its overgrown reeds that were a dark green in colour. A corner shop hung near the bridge, a magnet for kids buying cough sweets. My grandparents proved to be very welcoming and loving, and I remember that we visited them often, now that we were home again. I also met two aunts, younger sisters of my dad, who were still young enough to be living at home, and there were other relatives too including a rake of cousins out in Templeogue but who we often met at the house off the South Circular.
My mother had also grown up beside the canal, and it was an area of the city she was familiar with. Perhaps that was why we settled in Ranelagh on our return. It was close to the canal and my grandparents house, and it wasn't a million miles from the centre of the city. Cars were a new commodity, and people were only starting to acquire them. They were by no means a common sight.
The 'S' word, of course, meant school.
I remember it was a tearful occasion. If a child wasn't crying, then the mother was.
All of the teachers were nuns - black-robed figures with an air of mystery about them. I recall their first words. "We're here to teach you about the Holy Trinity. God, the Father, God, the Son, and God, the Holy Ghost."
It was a bit too much to take in. Some of their stories were fascinating. The story of how Moses as a baby boy was left in a wicker basket to float down the Nile and of how he was found by an Egyptian princess; and stories too of Jesus when he was a boy, and of how he walked on water when he became a man. They liked teaching us life lessons.
The teacher, another nun, was nonplussed as to why I was suddenly whimpering in pain. "What happened to him?" she demanded of the class.
"A bee stung him, sister," said a young girl who had been sitting close enough to see what happened.
"A bee?" she exclaimed.
She took up a Ladybird book and came down through the class. It was time for another of those life lessons. The bee, having deployed its sting, was as good as dead, but the nun flattened it anyway, making sure it couldn't do any more damage. Then she gave us that important life lesson. "Everything dies," she said. "Bees, animals, birds, even people."
"People?"
The truth of that remark hit me like a sledgehammer, and suddenly the mystery of my young existence had been explained away. A new feeling hit me. Fear.
It wasn't simply a fear for myself, but for my parents, my grandparents, my relations, and my friends. I told myself that perhaps the nun had lied for reasons best known to herself. My parents would dispel the lie.
But as I raced home that day to ask, my heart already knew the answer. Everyone dies!