Marigolds

We used to tease her, my sister and I. You never knew what you would find coming home on the school bus. Leaving in the morning only to return with bright purple shutters and door on the house one day, or an aqua kitchen the next. My mom loved color. The more, the merrier, she would say. She let us pick out what colors we wanted our rooms to be. I chose hot pink. My sister went with bright purple. Gold carpet and a green sofa adorned the living room, and red took over the dining room.

Although our house was like a crayon box; colorful and everything in its place, our yard never seemed to match. There were dead, yellowed spots of grass in the lawn and the bushes were nondescript. Mom was always more into the house decor, sewing and baking than she ever was into flowers , probably because she gravitated to the things she knew about. But every year, without fail, marigolds found their way into our front yard. The orange flowers stood out against the red lava rocks, to the horror of my sister and myself. Out of all the flowers, WHY marigolds? I asked her once. Because they’re like little balls of sunshine, she replied, laughing. As we grew older, more flowers appeared. Tulips and hyacinths were added alongside the trusty orange flowers that still made an appearance. Mom was venturing out! She was becoming a gardener. The thought makes me chuckle even now.

Mom was a real salt of the Earth kind of woman. You always knew what she said was the truth. Never sugar-coated, but never mean. She loved to laugh and was a warm, loving person. I never met anyone like her and know I never will again. She was my best friend growing up, and she’s my hero now.

We had decided in a family trip to Florida. We’d drive the whole way, to save money and spend more time together as a family. Mom knew it would be our last trip together, none of the rest of us did. She had discovered a lump a few weeks prior, but didn’t want to ruin our vacation plans, so she said nothing of it to anyone. The trip was good, but not memorable, other than it was our last one together.

She went to the doctor and got the news that she already knew in her heart. Cancer. She went through chemo and had a lumpectomy, keeping her signature sense of humor intact. When she lost her hair, she thought it was great fun to pull her wig off to entertain the younger cousins. She never complained. She was thankful for everything in her life and many others had it much worse than her, she’d say. Things were good for two years, with every checkup coming back clean. And then they weren’t. It didn’t take long for the inevitable, and she didn’t suffer greatly. Either that, or she just never let on like she was. That was so typical of her, thinking of others before herself.

Years have passed. I have been married and divorced. Had a child go off to school and start his own life in another town. Things have changed through the years, as they do, but so many things have stayed with me. Her wild color choices. Her loud laughter and knowing smile. I look in the mirror and I can see her face peering back at me.

I’ve started my own gardens now. Lots of roses, hydrangea and mixed perennials. Loads of color. I often think , not THIS would make mom happy. I even ventured into building a raised bed of vegetables with a wild scarecrow to watch over the rows when I’m away. She stands there alone, watching and waiting patiently, until I return home from work and head out back to my flowers. My happy place. Some times when the wind is blowing, rustling through the leaves, I swear I can almost hear: plant some marigolds, they’re like little balls of sunshine. I smile and say, maybe next year, as I eye the perfect spot where they’d fit right in.

The End.