Holy Saturday
“I could to this one good thing today.”
Holy Saturday
by William Fargason
I woke up hungover in the dull light
that fell in lines across the sheets.
I didn’t even drink that much. I didn’t
kill myself last night, even though
I wanted to, even though the thought
came in strong and unannounced
like a breeze through a cracked door.
This morning, I walked into the living room,
where, above the sliding doors,
the long horizontal windows cast beams
of light across the floor. In the corners
of the frame, I saw a yellowjacket,
or maybe a hornet, struggling to get out
of a window it couldn’t open. The world
on the other side must have seemed
so close. When I got closer, it fell
to the floor, where I saw it was a bumblebee,
those heroes of the insect world, the kings
of pollination. I grabbed a plastic cup
and a paper towel, scooped him up
as gently as I could—like I was
an elevator the bee was stepping onto,
watching his small legs sense the plastic.
—I could do this one good thing today,
even if the bee didn’t know I was
saving him by containing him, even if
releasing him meant I would be
alone again in my apartment. I took him
outside, into the cold spring grass
and flowerbeds. I bent down among
the mulch. I aimed the rim of the cup
to the edge of a daffodil blooming
in the sun. The bee left the cup and went
straight into the bell of the flower,
covered himself in pollen. I left him
alone and went back inside, to my walls
and my lamps and my air-conditioned air
that came back to me, from the fan
that spun on the ceiling.
Published in The Common, January 11, 2024.
