Pendulum of the Wildflower

First, it was the man they interviewed. The one who owned the patch of land. Known locally as the happiest man in town. The reporter asked him what the secret was. He said it was to get outside and walk amongst the flowers. He invited everyone to join him. All were welcome to share in his land, to share his happiness and vigor. Then the reporter asked where he could possibly go from there. His happiness was one that people spend their lives trying to achieve, what more could he do? Something cracked behind his eyes. The glimmer dimmed. He continued to smile, but said he didn't know.

He launched himself out of a third story window. He left a note, but all it said was that he didn't understand. Two weeks later, the reporter scurried into the road, stiletto heel cracking in the headlights of a city bus. The camera crew on site the day of the interview went by poison, gunshot, overdose. The reporter's assistant disappeared while hiking. They found pieces of her at the bottom of a ravine. She hadn't been wearing hiking boots. Her class ring showed up in animal droppings about a mile away.

Accidents, they said. Unfortunate circumstances. Surely a sign of the times. A park was built in the field, in memory of the lives lost. Despite all that happened, it was a beacon of hope in an otherwise dark and polluted city. Wildflowers sat across the way from the benches and swing sets. Couples strolled hand in hand, strangers tipped their hats and did small favors for their neighbors. Artists set up easels, and buskers headed home with jars overflowing with tens and twenties. Rejuvenating, they said. The man who used to own that plot of land had the right idea. Walk amongst the wildflowers, that's the key. Tragic, they'd muse. Sometimes the happiest ones have the saddest hearts.

The deaths didn't stop. Congressmen, judges, police officers. Grocery clerks, butchers, schoolteachers. Dropping like flies. They'd all had the best few weeks of their lives just before ending it all. Productive, creative, enlightening days immersed in energy and optimism. Some left notes, some didn't. All expressed confusion and sadness. The light disappeared as quickly as it came. There was nothing left. They'd reached their peak. Things would never be the same. Every last one of them spent time in the park. But then again, most people did.

Theories floated around. Government said terrorism, Russia probably. True crime nuts claimed there was a killer on the loose, one who clearly hated his mother. Environmentalists blamed the smog and held protests at city hall. Psychologists couldn't agree, but that was nothing new. We became fearful of optimism, put off by the happiness of another. The sudden desire to create, to express, to love, was laced with ominous tones. Was it true happiness? Or just the rise before the fall? Physical touch was a social sin. Hugs, kisses, lovemaking, their roots were suspect. The park grew quiet. No couples, no children, no dogs chasing balls. Sometimes the saddest hearts have the happiest memories.

It took a long time to look toward the sunny petals that swayed innocent and unassuming in the springtime breeze. It was nearly fall when a single brazen biologist decided to scream into the void. Pheromones, he claimed. The flowers had evolved to attract bees in the strongest way possible. The bees had evolved to handle the surge but since their population declined, the flowers went into overdrive, desperate for pollination. Humans were not equipped to handle the command, he said. Our brains failed to process the flux in its chemicals, and our inner worlds became tumultuous. Our only choice was to destroy the flower colony. Could we prove it? No, not really. Pheromones are hard to detect, especially when it comes to humans. Were we willing to try it? Yes. Russia denied involvement. Investigators had no leads. Environmentalists were self-satisfied. Psychologists had nothing to say. The beauty of the flower patch would be gone.

The suffering would be gone, too.

Hazard crews came in, suited, masked and gloved. They ripped the flowers out by their roots and hauled them into bins that would be sealed and sent to an incinerator. They salted the earth, poisoned the soil. A tall fence was placed around the patch of land, and the bodies of the recently deceased were exhumed and studied. Teams have been assigned to watch over the land carefully, just in case the flowers decide to return.

Nature has been known to persevere.

It is nearly the end of winter, close to a year since the interview. Citizens have begun to return to the park, though its former warmth has yet to be revived. Artists become frustrated and slam their kits shut, stomping through the grass with canvas and easel. Buskers head home unheard and empty handed. No children come to the park. Strangers stay strangers, and keep to themselves. The previous mayor was not re-elected. The governor wasn't either. Their responses to the incident were criticized, as if we were not guilty of the same ignorance and disbelief. When the earth is scorched, there is little hope of going back. We are back to the status quo, even bleaker than before.

I long to see a bee floating its way between the chain link to greet an infant bud. I lament the loss of beauty, even with the price that must be paid. Momentary pleasure is not worth the dimming of a life, but pleasure it is still- a ray of sun in the frigid winter air.