|
Member
Join Date: Sep 2005
Posts: 4
|
BEE, MY ANGEL
BEE, MY ANGEL
A SHORT STORY BY SCOTT GARDNER
Dedicated to my daughter Rikki, who is an amazing writer and makes me strive to be a better person. My true angel.
BEE, MY ANGEL
I've been in Siberia, frozen to the bone now for nearly 47 years. I’ve been working the coalmines trying to earn enough rubles for my next case of vodka, a sack of potatoes, and a loaf of bread. Vodka keeps me warm at night and takes my mind off of this dreary existence. My life consists of nothing but work, pain, misery, sadness, and despair. Vodka however, is my one, true savior. It reaches out to me every night and takes me to a place where there is no pain.
I am just a sad Russian miner with worn-out shoes, tattered clothing, no furniture, living alone in a one-room shack above a Farmers’ market. This is my life. Why do I go on? Why do I continue to suffer this way? What did I do to deserve this torturous hell? It seems my only purpose on this planet is to suffer until I die and I see no happiness in sight. What keeps me from climbing up the water tower and plunging myself off into the sweet, eternal bliss of darkness? Why am I here, for God’s Sake? These are the thoughts that go through my head every single night.
Who am I to question my existence or Gods' reason for creating me? I’m just a poor miner with no formal schooling but God must have put me on Earth for a reason. Surely, he didn’t put me here to just suffer in misery. There must be a plan for me. Is this life possibly just a test, is it meant to be painful and bleak? Will I somehow be rewarded for my struggle in another life? Will my soul, my very being, go on to journey and live a thousand other lives, one after another, or will it just simply die when my body finally fails?
If my soul does go on, then perhaps each life gets better than the last. Maybe with each passing life, my soul will become just a bit wiser, more mature, maybe even more intelligent and creative. Maybe that is why there are so many different types of people. Some are weak, timid, and shy, some strong, confident, meant to lead; some have no skills or abilities, yet some are creative geniuses.
Some people must have new souls and some must have very old souls. With each passing life my soul will reach for a higher high. Perhaps one of my future lives will be better and I will be happier and not have to work so hard. One day, I may even reach a state of complete enlightenment and I may finally find peace with myself and my maker. Maybe that is what heaven really is, the ultimate reward.
Or maybe not, maybe this is all there is. I work, I drink, I eat, and I sleep, alone. This is all I do, over and over, day after day, and year after year, this is my purpose, until I die. Then, there will be no more, nothing. My thoughts and existence will be instantly extinguished, snuffed out like the flame of a match. All I know is that these mines are breaking my back. My feet ache, my fingers are numb, my vision is blurred, and my lungs are giving in to the blackness they inhale.
All I can say is thank God for Vodka, my one true friend. It is there for me every night when no one else is. It will never leave my side, at least as long as I have a few rubles in my pocket. It will never leave me for a richer man the way my wife had done years ago. It will never spit on me for being a poor provider the way my children had. It will never kick me when I’m down; besides, I have myself to do that.
I know there are people worse off than me but somehow that just doesn't ease the pain of my hard, uneventful life. Should I feel fortunate for what I do have? Perhaps, but there has to be more than just this. Surely, just living to exist cannot be enough. I've never created anything to benefit the world. I've never discovered anything. I've never been committed to any type of association, ideology, or cause. I've never been one to entertain or enlighten. My name will never be remembered. I don’t care about others. I am nothing.
I am simply a worker bee in a hive. Hmm, maybe that is my purpose. The human race needs its worker bees. Someone has to do the dirty work, the hard work. Perhaps I do have a purpose. I mine coal. Coal, which in turn heats family's homes, keeping their children warm. Creating fuel for trucks and ships, moving goods to the masses. Creating electricity. Without coal, Russia would die and so would its people.
I suppose I do have a purpose! I am a provider. I work. I give. My job isn't glorious and it's neither fun, nor exciting. I won't win any medals or be remembered. It is a humble, unassuming job. But that is my purpose; I am a worker bee in this hive of humanity, doing my small part to contribute to the whole. If I don't go into the mines, who will? The children? No, they deserve much better than that and they are too fragile and weak for this dangerous work.
In this moment of clarity, God has finally answered one of my questions. I do have a purpose in life. I am a miner. I have a job to do and starting now, I will do it with vigor and pride. It takes a brave and strong man to work these mines day in and day out. I am a worker, I’m brave and I’m strong! I will help produce the honey this hive needs and I can be proud of what I do. God put me here for a reason and I no longer need to question why.
And if I can take pride in myself, then surely others will see that. Who knows, maybe I won’t have to be alone for the rest of my life. Surely, someone will be able to see the good in me. It’s not too late to turn this old life around. But Vodka, my faithful companion has stood by my side for all of these years. I must move on but how do I say good-bye to the one friend I have? How will I walk without my crutch? Who will I reach out to on cold, lonely evenings? How will I fight the temptation to ease the pain? Will I have the strength?
Prologue
"Daddy, tell me the story again, please", cried my daughter. She loves hearing the story of the Miner who met God. It is one of her favorites. It is a story of a broken down, old man who was one step away from meeting his maker. He was down in a dark, deep hole about to give up. In a moment of introspection, exasperation, and then finally despair, when it seemed all hope was lost, a hand holding a branch, suddenly reached down from the sky and was offered to the miner. Without hesitation, the miner reached up for the branch and grabbed it. He was down deep and needed help getting out. The branch wasn't strong and was starting to break but it was just enough to lift him up to the point where he could climb out on his own. And he did.
When the miner was up on solid ground standing firmly on his own two feet, the branch was gone and so was the hand. But he didn't mind and he didn’t question. His legs never felt stronger, his lungs never clearer. And for the first time in months, the corners of his lips curled upwards into a smile as he gazed up into the heavens. He took a deep breath, shook himself off and reflected on what had just happened. Soon afterwards, he found himself standing in front of his bare cupboards holding his prized bottle of vodka. He opened the cap, lifted the bottle, and started pouring just as he always has. Only this time, he poured it down the drain.
Three weeks later, during a night school class for writing, he met the next and last love of his life. Within months, they were married and soon after that his wife gave birth to a beautiful, baby girl. An angel sent from above. "And that angel is you", I said to my daughter. “Daddy, you mean before you wrote books and beautiful stories, you really were a miner?” she asked. “Yes my honeybee, it’s true”, I replied.
After putting little Bee to bed that night, my wife and I sat in front of the fireplace and talked. I asked her if she was content living with a man who could only provide such a simple, mundane lifestyle. “I couldn’t ask for anymore”, my wife replied. “But sometimes I feel I have such little to offer”, I said. “I’m just a humble writer with meager earnings, barely able to keep this roof over our heads. Wouldn’t you be happier with someone who could offer you more, someone better than me?”
My beautiful wife responded almost angrily, “Don’t you know what your are?” I was confused and taken aback by her sudden outspokenness. “What am I, tell me?” I asked curiously. She replied, “You are a man. You are a miner. You are a writer. You are brave and you are strong.” “So what”, I interrupted, “I know those things, it means nothing, I am nothing”. “Let me finish”, she exclaimed, almost crying.
“Don’t ever say you are nothing. You are a creator. You helped create our beautiful child. You are a discoverer. You discovered your true purpose and meaning in life, something many people never do. You are committed to our marriage and this family. You are a writer. You entertain people of all ages with the books and stories you write. You will be remembered forever. The fans of your books will always remember you. But more importantly, so will your children, your children’s’ children and so on. You have a good, strong, caring soul, and it will live on for eternity. You are everything to this family.”
At that moment, a chill ran up my spine. Everything my wife said was true. Everything I once wasn’t, I now am. I had asked God in the past, why I had so little. Now I could ask, why I have so much. I went from having nothing to having everything. A hard life has now become a good life. A sad life is now a happy life. An insignificant life now has meaning. “Thank you”, I said to my wife, “Thank you.” Sitting silently, holding my wife tightly in my arms, I thought to myself, I am blessed, I am happy, I am loved, and I am needed. My soul is in God’s hands and I can now finally accept that.
I am a worker bee and I couldn’t be… any happier.
The End
__________________
Scotty G
|
