Stan catches himself talking out loud in empty rooms. He argues, defends himself against invisible opponents. But he does not know what killed the bees.

Every morning he makes a pot of coffee, then drinks the first cup on the front porch. Steam fogs his glasses when it’s cold. Unable to see, he listens to roosters crowing in his neighbor’s yard. Otherwise, he reads.

The porch bench, made from planks of a fallen redwood, smells like the forest when it’s warmed by the sun. It was built to last a lifetime.

Winter shouldn’t have killed the bees. It doesn’t get that cold in Sacramento.

***

It’s the wettest month of a very wet winter and Stan’s boots won’t dry if left outside. The front door sticks and it’s been years since he said he would fix it. By spring, he always forgets. When he comes inside, his boots are dropped on the kitchen floor. He only sometimes remembers to sweep up the mud.

Average winter temperatures. No signs of starvation. The bees had been treated for mites. No swarming.

“I did nothing wrong,” Stan says to his reflection in the window above the kitchen sink.

***

When the phone rings, he knows it’s not his daughters. The calls all go to voicemail.

The winter garden is mostly bare. On dry days, Stan rakes paths and scoops dead leaves out of beds where nothing grows. He kneels on foam pads, but his knees hurt anyway. When it’s too wet to work outside, he sits on the porch and watches puddles spread across the lawn. The roosters next door are hard to hear above the sound of rain.

Stan doesn’t know what killed the bees, but he thinks the hive has been queenless.

He doesn’t carry a phone, and his daughters never call. Only telemarketers leave messages and he listens to them all.

Queen failure, he reads, is often a mystery. Many things can go wrong. Disease. Pesticides. Poor nutrition. If the queen is not quickly replaced, the entire hive is lost.

***

It takes time to notice that the house has changed. The curtains, for instance, are always closed. He remembers how the sun once bounced off door handles and lamps, then he considers the effort of drawing back the drapes. It’s easier to turn on a light.

A hive with a healthy and productive queen is called queenright. A good queen lays good eggs, but Stan can’t remember the last time he inspected the brood.

The house is cold and dark when he comes inside for dinner. He eats anything that he can heat in the microwave. When the quiet gets to him, he turns on the TV. He might someday get used to eating while watching the news.

He will never get used to eating alone.

***

When Stan calls his daughters, they sometimes answer their phones. Usually, they do not. He leaves messages, but can’t seem to say what he really means. Later, the right words will come as he rinses coffee mugs gathered in the sink. His voice is too loud in the empty kitchen.

In winter, the hive can only be opened on the warmest days. He doesn’t need a bee suit and doesn’t bother with smoke. There are no guard bees left to sting him.

His daughters rarely answer their phones, but letters come in the mail from strangers. They want to buy his house and they offer him cash.

A good beekeeper studies the dead colony for clues. The bee books call this an autopsy. Stan opens the hive and sees nothing.

***

After a week of rain, gutters flow and water pools around the house. When the garbage in the kitchen starts to smell, it’s already dark outside and Stan has taken off his boots. He ties up the bag and leaves it on the porch.

Sometimes dogs get loose, and sometimes coyotes come up from the river at night. Once, they left a rooster, a mess of blood and feathers, spilled open on the grass. This time, it’s only garbage. In the morning, Stans grabs a plastic bag from the house and starts picking up trash.

When the garden is wet, everything sparkles. Damp paper breaks apart in his hands. He plucks a mostly dry letter from a bush and reads the words “cash offer.” He tears up the letter and shoves it into the trash. His daughters might call back.

The garden looks dead, but Stan knows what will  bloom in each bare patch of mud. There will be herbs and flowers and maybe new bees. The quiet of the morning is broken by song. It startles him as it passes his lips.