Golden Opportunity

After relocating one thousand miles and two years of being isolated from those they loved, they have a home. Fifteen chickens and a weak hive of bees sit outside. She told him that marigolds are good for chickens to eat—that they help make their yolks a deeper yellow. Desperate to aid the bees, he agreed to purchase marigolds from a local garden center. They found the fullest plants and brought them home.

The hive is underneath a small tree, surrounded by large orange lilies. He hangs one of the marigold pots from a tree branch and hopes to get the bees attention. The others sat on the ground between the hive and the lilies. He stands a few feet back and watches dozens of busy bees feast on the simple syrup and pollen powder he prepared for them. The hive arrived small with over half of them deceased, and he knew it would be a challenge.

Inside their home, he sits upstairs at his computer and fights his inability to focus. He simply wants to write and be seen, but it is difficult to look past failures and lost opportunities. His father slowly dies in a nursing home those one thousand miles away. His friends struggle with their new businesses and the myriad of other tiring aspects of life. His cursor continuously blinks as it has been for several hours. In his mind is an overwhelming conglomeration of ideas and aspirations. This bundle of potential is a bow rather than a flowing ribbon. Caught on itself, it cannot be anything more than what it is. What would untie this bow? His fingers twitch and cower in anticipation.

Hours later, he stands outside with the chickens as they make humorous sounds and peck in the dirt. A fence is between them and the marigolds. Instead of constructing the chicken run, he stares at the flowers. Some are bright yellow like a dandelion, but others are that golden orange one sees in the fall. They are lovely. Exquisite. A chicken pecks at his shoes and pulls him back in. His bag of tools sits next to some lumber that was recently dragged there. He knows nothing of proper measuring, cutting, and assembling. It seems easy to measure a length, mark it, and cut it, and it always is. At least until he secures it into place and finds it the incorrect length or not level. He is frustrated every time. What is there to mess up? Is the ground not flat? Is he not paying attention? Should he even be doing this? Maybe he should sit and struggle at his computer once again. At least it is cool inside.

It is two months later. No additional pages have been typed. Not another length of lumber has been cut. He lies on the floor while she makes an effort downstairs and worries. She worries about him as a person and his health rather than his inability to assist financially. She worries as she just learned his bees are dead, and it is too late in the season to replace them. She worries he is not transparent in his mood or state of mind.

Outside, she sees the deconstructed hive and its parts lying haphazardly under that tree. She sees the yellow and orange hues of the marigolds. She also sees the brown hues as they die. The marigolds are dying just as the bees did. The marigolds are dying before the chickens could eat them. She thinks the chickens could eat them now, but what would that do for the bees? The run would remain unbuilt. He would remain on the floor. She would remain worried. His cursor would remain continuously blinking. A chicken pecks at her shoes and pulls her back in. Her arms hang at her sides. She grabs the other just above the elbow and returns inside.