The Lily and the Bumble Bee

I try to keep my mind perpetually free of thought, empty, as has to be the way when all you can do is stare directly ahead of you. You gradually learn how to displace any erratic thoughts once you have been in my body for as long as I. For most, namely People, each day passes in a blur of activity, things I will never even know of, let alone experience. No matter how many times I send the same wish (that is to have fully functioning limbs) darting across the night sky upon a shooting star, my legs remain solid on the ground, glued to the spot right beneath my heavily booted feet. Eventually I stopped trying to get my feet to respond to the urges in my mind. I know I will never know movement.

Beady black eyes stare out of my head, forever unblinking, fixed upon the same point always. Still, at least I have a nice view. The People were considerate in that respect. My spot in the garden is in the midst of a flowerbed, raised on a platform above the haven of the lawn below, which stretches out on all sides of me to the trees that mark the edge of my world. I am surrounded by an array of colours from the tulips that sprout each year from the soil upon which I stand. The best ones are red, and are the same shade as the hat that rests snuggly on my head, hiding the tips of my ears – welcomed warmth in the bitter winter months when the tulips are long dead and the bare branches of the trees offer no protection from the fiercely cold wind that circles through the garden, though the hat is somewhat a burden in the wonderful summer heat that the tulips lap into their gloriously velvet petals.

From my spot, I can enjoy watching the dogs; Beasts in many ways but they offer relative amusement during my long days. I watch as they race across the expanse of lawn, stupidly chasing after a piece of bouncing rubber, often falling over their many legs and barely stopping to scramble to right themselves, not noticing how silly they look to the observer with their fat, slobbery tongues lolling about.

Still, better to be stupid and mobile, than clever and full of thoughts and observations yet destined to forever dwell on a concrete block adorned with concrete flowers.

I am in a much more favourable position, however, than my two companions, whose names remain to this day unknown to me. One of them, the dopiest looking one, teeters on the edge of the stone wall of the flowerbed, almost out of my line of vision, his orange hat faded many moons ago to a dull grey, his grin plastered across his face come rain or shine. At least I don’t have to pretend to be happy all of the time, having been somewhat blessed with an almost expressionless face. The other of our companions lies on his back, behind our flowerbed, his single remaining eye forever staring into the depths of the sky, hidden and forgotten after being knocked over by a Beast.

Yes, I am much better off. Yet not so much as to live in any kind of hope. My wishes to the stars stopped long ago.

*

In the end, it was the bee that changed my life. The flowerbed adjoining our own is inhabited by beautifully drooping white lilies, their petals so close to my tulips, that I can almost taste them as well as smell their sickly-sweet scent. Nothing much goes near the lilies – their aroma is too strong to attract much to them. So when a buzzing noise alerted me to a presence around the flowers, I focused my attention on it.

The bumble bee was fat, so much so that its flight could never be called graceful like the dragonflies that like our tulips. It bobbed up and down as it hovered its plump body above the lilies, judging the most suitable flower for the job it had come to do. Finally it chose a flower, and dove straight into the centre of the petals, right to its heart. The fuzzy black and yellow hairs buzzed and vibrated against the sheer, translucent wings as the insect sucked out the delicious pollen from within.

Watching the beautiful exchange between bee and flower, I realised I had been wrong to give up hope. A bumblebee, free to do as it wishes, with the purpose of spreading life, of keeping the flower alive from one year to the next, so that those such as myself may enjoy their beauty. Yes, I was wrong. Hope was the only way to save myself from a lifetime of boring, dull conversations with myself.

As the bee rested on the edge of the broad, spotted white petal, the centre of the lily seemed to sigh a thanks and close itself away. Then, just as a breeze came rolling in, it dipped its feathery petal, slowly sinking towards the ground, and brought it sharply back up, springing the bee up into the air to fly along with the wind.

When night fell, I awaited the arrival of the glittering stars, sparkling like jewels against a pure black backdrop, the shimmering arm of the Milky Way just visible, and I wished harder than I ever had in my head.

*

This morning, the sun awakes me from my slumber, and my eyes stare ahead at the line of trees the other side of the garden. Subconsciously, I will my legs to move.

I feel a twitch.

Excitement flutters through me as I will my legs to move, to lift, to swing.

My leg moves. Slowly, as if being dragged through peat, my leg rises, my knee bends.

I blink in shock.

I blink!

I send the command to other areas and as each of my limbs slowly move, as if awakening from a deep sleep, I hear a gasp, and realise it is me!

Finally, I bend my knees, test my weight against them, and leap into the gentle breeze, just like the bee.

I land on the wonderfully soft, bouncy grass, and roll around, laughing.

This is me: no longer a mere garden gnome!