A kitchen, a house in the country — dry and dusty, very little greenery.
A little boy with dark hair and a baby face sits at the kitchen table playing with an old wooden birdhouse.
I see a yellowjacket crawl sluggishly over the back of the birdhouse. Inside I see the telltale paper comb covered with more yellowjackets.
I shout a warning to the boy — he is my son in this dream — and he laughs at my fear. I command him to take the birdhouse out of the house.
He does grudgingly.
I turn to see a girl — his sister, my daughter in the dream — sitting on the floor by my briefcase. She is playing with another hunk of honeycombed nest. She digs her finger into a hole, tearing at the gray papery mass, and draws out a still pupating larva.
She tells me it’s safe.
