A month after the May rains and flash floods, a large, flowering bush in our front yard started buzzing. Bees, I thought, when I heard it. But I did not see any bees. I drew closer. The buzzing grew louder in my ears. I looked up. I looked down. I stood on my tiptoes. I crouched down. But there were no bees to be seen.
I was puzzled. Where in the world was all this buzzing coming from? I stood there, baffled and a bit frustrated. I waited. And then, without looking for anything in particular, I caught a glimpse of something else, smaller than a bee, sitting on a leaf of the bush. It was a fly. All of a sudden, I noticed more flies hovering near the one on the leaf. Another fly, another fly, another fly. How did I not see them before? I backed up. The bush was covered in flies. Loud, buzzing flies.
I had not expected flies. But a bush full of flies was the truth. I could no longer deny that the flies were there. Something in my mind had connected with something in my eyes and it had changed my vision. Once I had seen that first fly, I couldn’t help but see all the rest.
I had looked. I had investigated. I had become baffled and frustrated. Then I waited. And when the truth revealed itself, it changed my vision.
April Pickle lives under a green roof with her husband, four children, and two dogs. She holds a degree in journalism from the University of Texas at Austin and teaches journalism and literature at a university-model high school. One cold day, when April was in the fourth grade, she closed the car door on her winter coat and, unbeknownst to her or her father, prevented the door from latching all the way. Half a mile down the road, her daddy turned a corner, the door flew open, and she fell out. Thanks to the thickness of the coat, she was unharmed.