The Tragedy of Day and Night

   Stoic, straight, sentinel. That is how he stood basking in the glory of the life-giving sun. Thus, was his duty, every day, standing at the end of the row with his cousins and his friends. Stand basking in the heat and the love of the precious sun. Silently, they stood and magnified the house, guards against intruders.

    He was not an individual with a unique name, but he was a sentient being.  He controlled the end of the row. He protected those who could not bear the power of the sun. He stood over and watched these fragile females as they slept deep in their covered darkness while the sun glorified the Earth. He was proud to do so, proud to be selected for this duty.

    His task was the same. His position unaltering. Day after day, he followed the pattern of the other guardians. As the sun rose in the East, they raised their heads toward the glorious light. As the life-giving orb journeyed through the sky making his daily journey, the guard turned their bodies to follow the path. As the sun set, their heads were lowered in prayer, and their eyes turned downward towards the earth where all nutrients came from. Their daily duty finished until the next morning. Their rest was hard-earned as they stood sentinel under the harsh sun.

    That was when he saw her. At the twilight of each day. When the strong rays of the sun darkened and set, she rose from her blankets, unwrapped her body, and gloried in the soft moonlight, serenaded by the crickets and bullfrogs in the small pond not far away. Her face washed and opened with a beauty and a newness that caused his respiration to pause. She appeared so small, so delicate, far below him. 

    Each night he would gaze on her as she woke. Watch her as she stretched her lithe, delicate body and said hello to the world.  He would close his eyes to sleep with the vision of her beauty in his heart and the sound of her soft laugh in his ears. He awoke each morning with the vision of her wrapping herself in the blankets to hide from the harshness of the sun. Their eyes would meet briefly. She would hold out as long as she could before she felt the forced rest. He would sing a gentle lullaby to her with his strong bass voice, but the words were foreign to her. His language was not her language.  His song gently caressed her body in its melody.

    “Why do you bother,” giggled her sisters as they watched her.

    “I don’t know what you are gossiping about,” she defended.

    “Yes, you do,” they laughed at her. “Every night you stand up faster than the rest of us and flaunt yourself to him. Every morning you linger longer than you should to try to catch his eye.”

    A faint blush crept under her pale blossoming skin. “I do not,” she argued in vain. Her words fell on deaf ears, she knew this. They had caught her longing after him. And long after him, she did. She loved him. 

    Each night, she slowly reached her arms and body across the ground towards him. She did so in small increments so her sisters, who disapproved of her love, would not notice. But they did. They remained silent, however, knowing in their ridicule of her that this love was hopeless. The two could never be together.

    One bright morning he awoke to feel her hands caressing the base of his leg. Startled, he stared at her with a yearning that transcended their incompatibility. He reached towards her and blew a gentle kiss. His scent, his kiss caught on the gentle morning breeze and floated to her. She returned his affection with a soft caress along his leg before she was forced to wrap her in her blanket of leaves and sleep. Her hand remained on his body. Each night, it slowly wrapped further and further around him, gently climbing towards his center and his core. 

    Her touch excited him. He stood prouder during the day, knowing he had her love. More erect as he kept his watch. His heart belonged to her.

    “It is unnatural,” scoffed his fellow guards. His brother, cousins, and friends did not approve. With a harshness, they criticized his love. They mocked his yearning. 

    “You are soft,” they would proclaim.

    “You are weak,” another announced.

    The largest of them looked down the line in scorn at him and grumbled, “You are not worthy to be one of us.”

    He ignored their hatred and scorn in silence. He would not appease them and attempt to justify his feelings. He knew he and his love were not compatible. They were two different races and species. They could never be together. They could only gaze upon each other in the early morning dawn and the waning twilight at night. His love was hopeless, but it was love. Love transcends all.

    His heart jumped on a windy July day as a small honey bee flitted around his head. He had noticed the creature paying attention to him for days. He felt this insect could be his ally.

    “Little bee,” he whispered. He did not want his brothers to hear. “Little bee come here.”

    “What do you want?” Buzzed the bee. “I am buzzy with my work.”

    “I know,” he sighed. “But I need help and only you can aid me.”

    Annoyed, yet curious, the bee listened while he flew around the head of the guard. When the instructions were finished, the bee nodded. “You are lucky I believe in love,” buzzed the bee. “I will try.”

    The bee flitted in and out of the guard’s head, collecting scent and samples of him on the creature’s hairy legs and wings. The very essence of the guard was captured in the small filaments that covered the body of the honey bee. 

    The drone then gently floated to the ground where the guard's love slept uninterrupted in the folds of her leafy blanket.  The bee crept through the folds and crevices of her heart and left the guard's essence and scent upon her. He then collected some of her scent and her essence. 

    She opened a sleeping eye towards the bee. “What are you doing?” she asked.

    “I am giving you some of your love, and taking some of you to him.” Replied the bee in a language that bees share with all creatures.

    She smiled at him and opened her folds to allow the bee entrance. He took what he needed, gently, so as not to further disturb her slumbering. She dreamt of her love and her embracing each other.

    Every day, the small honey bee repeated this act until the winds turned cold and he was forced to return to his hive to hibernate. The bee knew this love could not flower and flourish. It was a forbidden love, but who was a small bee to stand in the way of love? Nay kind of love, forbidden or accepted.

    Early in August, when the bee made the transfer in the early morning light the two lovers gazing at each other for their briefest moment of time, the bee asked them their names. 

    “My name is Jasmine,” she proclaimed, slowly wrapping herself in her blankets before the sun could burn and scar her gentle skin.

    “I have no name,” he declared.

    “I shall call you Amon,” she whispered. “It means the strong one and protector.” She said through yawns as the sun crested the eastern mountains and she closed her eyes to the cruel light.

    “Amon,” he whispered as his love vanished for the day, entombed in her protective folds.

    “What’s that?” asked the guardian standing straight next to him. The stern one’s body and face turned towards the sun. Straight and stoic.

    “Amon,” he repeated louder. “That is my name.”

    “Hrrumpff,” said the stoic sentinel. “Why do you need a name. This love you claim is nonsense and foolish. Give it up and accept who and what you are.” He shook his body to signify the end of the conversation.

    “I know who I am,” he pronounced, not wanting to concede his feelings as foolish. He would not be dismissed so easily. He had a name. He had found love. “I am Amon, and I love Jasmine.”

    The others ignored him, still feeling him foolish. 

    “I said I am Amon, and I love Jasmine.” He shouted his proclamation this time for all in the garden to hear. The other day-dwellers shook their leaves and cheered in triumph, but not the sentinel sunflowers. His fellow guardians. The night-blooming plants smiled in their sleep. Jasmine’s sisters curled around her to support her in love, knowing tragedy was not far off, but wanting to support her nonetheless.

    “So be it,” said the tallest sunflower. “Live the rest of your life in this foolish daydream, but DO NOT disturb our purpose with your nonsense.

    From that day forth, Amon and Jasmine existed in love every morning and every twilight. This ended one fateful day. The walkers who tended the garden appeared one morning after the sun had risen and Jasmine had gone to her slumber. The morning felt colder. The sun’s rays were less bright. Darkening clouds hung on the horizon this particular morning, and a thin frost had replaced the nutritious morning dew.  

         They spoke a strange language. One of the walkers places strong hands around Amon’s stem. He pulled and pulled. He ripped Jasmine’s tender vines away from Amon. Pain seared through both lovers.

    Amon tried to fight him. He willed his roots to go deeper. He fought with all his might.

    “Give in,” chanted the other sunflowers lying on the ground, having been ripped from the precious dirt. “It is our fate and destiny. Give in.”

    The walker released him and cursed. Droplets of rain started to fall. Angered, the walker pulled a large object from the belt. The metal of the blade caught the hastening sunlight in a glint. The blade cut through Amon in one fell swoop. 

   The motion was painless as Amon dropped to the ground. His stem, his nerves, his will all severed in one swift cut. He laid to rest next to his sleeping Jasmine. She dared risk a peek at her dying love. The raindrops mingled with her tears.