A Silent Extinction

The death of the last bumblebee feels like it should be stopping everyone in their tracks. I shut down my phone after reading the breaking news. It feels like radio listeners in their cars should be shocked to the point where accidents are skyrocketing. Like a couple of screams should be audible from apartment windows. My surroundings remains static as ever as the impersonal voice in my headphones repeatedly recount the story of how environmentalist scientists tried their best this last decade to keep the last remaining bees alive in secure lab environments, imitating optimum conditions for the lifespan and reproduction of bees, only for the last one to die today, with a declaration of the final bee’s death, a declaration of the end of natural pollination in the world. I abruptly stop walking and stretch my hands as far towards the sky as possible and then swing them down to touch my toes. I feel my eyes well up with tears as I notice the bits of dirt between my toes. I want to apologize to the soil, but it will never be enough. I take my headphones out and begin whacking ferociously at the sunken, wilted, shriveled weeds that are the only signs of life growing in my garden anymore.

I grab the last weed head and brace my legs for the final pull. My palms turn red, I find my grip slipping, my feet dig deeper in the ground- Ah! I land on my butt and a cloud of dirt engulfs me. I open my eyes as the cloud settles down only to realize my hand is held high up, weed head brandished like a victory, its roots shining in the sunlight. A worthy foe, but no match for me, I guess. Allowing myself a moment of relief for a job well done, I lay on my back and let the cool soil calm my muscles. I say it out loud, although I know it means nothing: I’m sorry, Mother Earth.

My gardening these days just consists of pulling weeds out. Flowers don’t grow here anymore. I have tried everything and my once luscious yard now takes on the look of a dessert, cracked and dry muted brown soil, even the weed sprouts with a sickly complexion. It has looked like this for years. Maybe the reason why no one cares about the extinction of bees is because we’ve gotten used to a life without them. A life without hues of deep greens. Roses have lost their romantic meaning, trees across the board are experiencing a stunt in their growth. You can’t attach an inspiring connotation to a dying subject. 

I force myself to sit up again. I’m like a sunflower, leaning towards the setting sun for physical and emotional nourishment. I find myself apologizing over and over, to nothing, to everything, I don’t know anymore. Is it a yell of an apology or a whisper? I don’t know. All I know is my apologies aren’t enough. Eventually the sun leaves and I’m left alone in the darkness. 

The next day I begin my walk to work much earlier than I normally would. I only allow myself to walk in a straight line, along the sidewalk. My balance is better than I thought. Another early riser nods hello at me as they walk by. I politely smile before turning back to the task at hand- not to deviate from my line. A slight tingle near my ear. Buzzing. I whip my head around faster than I can find my footing. I stumble and trip on myself before grabbing onto a nearby car. I quickly begin scanning the area around me. Was that real? A spirit remnant, perhaps? Ghost of bees past? I spend at least ten minutes with crazy eyes, my head whipping back and forth for a sign. I sigh and notice I had been so tense that sweat began trickling down my temples and chest. I begin walking normally, with a little fuel in my step, so I can get as far away as possible from whatever I felt back there. There’s no point in getting my hopes up. Even if one bee lives, that won’t do anything to solve the global ecological crisis, so who cares? That’s exactly right, who cares? I square my shoulders and stick my chin out with my new resolution. I don’t care, that’s who. 

My vision blurs in the middle of my new nonchalant walk, an uncomfortable product of forcing my new philosophy into every fibre of my being. Flapping. A set of wings flutter half an inch away from my eyes. As I focus I notice yellow and black. I blink. My eyelashes brush a, a fuzziness, before they open again. Before my brain can catch up and I can fully trust what I had just seen, this clumsy little black and yellow speck makes its way up in the sky. I find myself smiling and awkwardly waving at the bee as it leaves. This moment is a testament to the durability of the natural world. I start skipping, slightly.

After work I immediately purchased fertilizer and some store bought nutrient soil. Who am I to give up when that brave bee zips his way through the world, intrinsically saving the world, unaware of the weight that his title of Pollinator carries? I hum as I start turning over my soil, then whistling, and then belting. My body feels like it’s waking up from a depressed slumber as I find myself dancing in my garden. My feet glide on the dirt, barely indenting the ground as I twirl around, letting my hair envelope me in a bubble. I’m so light, so full of relief. The gray tinted smog no longer feels permanent, the brown faucet water can come out crystal clear, my garden can once again be teeming with life, underground with worms and ants, and above ground with swaying, praying flowers, so long as I do my part.