Emerging from my egg I find myself in my own little shell, walls made from a wood, saliva, and wax paste letting a cool breeze seep through the cracks. I bump into my newly hatched brothers and sisters as we stumble our way around the nest. We know our orders, some will tend to the larvae, others will hunt, and the rest will defend the nest. Our nest is still young so I soon reach my point of takeoff. But the spring is newborn too, and so a frigid dry wind accompanies my first gaze at the barren but bustling landscape beyond the nest.
The grey sky, naked branches, and brown fields create a gloomy atmosphere for my first day’s flight. I depart the nest along with a small group of my siblings. We drone through the branches of bushes and hover above the tangle of tall tan and greedy green grasses. Some of my group team up in a standoff with a queen ant while others chase after flies. I scope out a small beetle as my target and the chase is on. He’s got sheer speed on me, but I’ve got agility and I’ve got size. He leads me through a dense evergreen but I stay on his tail. In a last-ditch effort, he dives down through a crack in a fence. Smart little bugger. I don’t fit. I dart to the top of the fence, but I’ve lost him.
My pursuit has left me resting atop a fence surrounding a garden bustling with noise and freshly planted un-bloomed flowers. Within the fence a couple of giants dance in a circle—plants, and shovels in hand, smiling and staring at each other, and playfully trading off belting the words to a song called “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.” The music fades out now and I feel an odd sensation, a warmth, the heat of the sun. I think I’ll stay a while.
Travelling across the sky the sun shone down on me and as I basked in its rays the grass turned green, the branches budded, and the couple’s garden grew. Over the course of the afternoon their smiles grew as well with each hole dug and each plant placed. But the woman gets tired. Yawning, she tosses her gloves to the man and takes the music inside. The man collects their tools and empty plastic plant containers, slowly making his way towards the garage. And as the patio door swings shut behind the woman, he begins to hum. His hums slowly turn to words and he cradles the lyrics arriving at the soothing final phrase: “For I can’t help falling in love with you...” and the patio door cracks shut.
The evening has crept up on me. Under the orange glow of tonight’s full moon, I snatch up a few aphids for the colony, and return to the nest.
A couple weeks have passed and our once-barren wax nest has turned to a bustling golden palace. It’s warmer now, and the flowers have bloomed. My morning flight takes me to the couple’s garden. I slide down to the bottom of the calla lilies, dipping myself in the little pool of water their vase shaped petals so perfectly store. Cleansed, I glide down to brush against the lavender, stealing some of its soothing scented oil. Feeling energized today, I’ll skip my usual snuggle between the silky sheets of the carnations. Instead, I fly over to admire the enchanting tiger patterns of the alstroemerias. It’s a serotonin overload. My colony is thriving, so life is good.
But I’ve noticed the increasing number of wilted petals in the couple’s garden. The man sits in the garden often, but the woman not so much. He brings her out occasionally, but no longer inspires her smile. The sunny twinkle has left both of their eyes, and they never listen to music.
I see now a jumping spider crawling over to the other side of the fence, an easy target. I jolt up, he’s scurrying down the fence, desperate for cover. But I’ve got him. Diving down I… I hear the patio door slam shut followed by the woman’s giggle. I abandon the chase, curiosity calls me. Peeking over the fence I see the woman with a different man. With him, her lips never cover her teeth, it is clear to me now. Her cheeks are sore from the new man, her smile stolen from the man with whom she nurtured the garden. I hear the rumble of a storm. I ought to get back to the nest before the rain.
I’m returning empty-handed but it doesn’t seem to matter. Entering the colony, I feel unseen. We’ve got plenty of food, my younger siblings bring back plenty and a new larva sleeps in my cell. It is clear to me now.
The rain is close but the couple’s hostas will shield me. Finding a leaf not browning on the edges is proving difficult. I suppose this leaf will do. It’s darker than it was before, colder too. The rain is closing in and drawing insects of all types under the hostas. This doesn’t excite me. I’m unable to eat insects, they were for the larvae. I’ve been eating the sugar spit which our larvae in turn produced. Cold and malnourished, I’ll have to ride this storm out.
Finally, the storm is over. The clouds have yet to part, though. The rest of the bugs with me—ants, spiders, and a grasshopper too—all quickly head off to resume their daily routine. Having nowhere else to be, I’ll stay for a while. But now I hear the patio door swing partially shut; this sound is accompanied by an infatuating scent. Sugar. Like the smell of the larvae spit but far more pungent. The scents of the moist soil, lavender, and composting bugs and plant parts have all vanished. The whiff of sugar clogs my antennae. I race to the man and his mysterious sweets.
He sits slouched way back in his metal rocking chair at the wet table supporting a slice of cake on a paper plate and a tall brown glass bottle, similar to the ones filling his trash bin. It’s time to make a move. I dive at the cake. Touch down. My legs are nearly completely submerged in the frosting, this must be heaven. But he raises his hand at me, I’d flee normally but my legs won’t move and anyways this seems like a rather nice place to die. His hand stays raised though; he seems reluctant to finish the job. He looks at me, and I look at him. It’s silent beside Bruno Mars’s “When I Was Your Man” playing in the background on the neighbor’s speaker. Lowering his hand, a brief and subtle grin forms on his face. Followed by a long gentle sigh. He reaches for me but I’m not worried anymore. He carefully pinches my abdomen and frees me from the frosting, setting me back down on a dry spot on the table beside the plate. He cuts me a small piece of his cake, one with extra frosting, and pours me a few drops from his brown glass bottle. Its smell, reminiscent of the fermenting apple I snacked on the other day, manages to break through the intoxicating smell of frosting. And we sat. Looking out at the dying garden we both watched grow all summer. But as the sun’s rays peeked out from the clouds, the hostas’ leaves shone, the flowers rebloomed, the grass reached back towards the sky, the man smiled despite a tear rolling down his cheek, and having satisfied my sweet tooth, I decide I’ll rest and let my beautiful world slowly turn black.
