Chickens and Marigolds

Have you ever seen anyone get a single marigold flower as a symbol of love and affection?

Me neither. At least, I hadn’t. Then I met Frank.

Oh Frank.

He introduced himself as Franklin. That should have been my first sign. After all, who goes by their full name these days? And when was the last time you met a Franklin?

Oh right, you have. How long has it been now since you two met? Six months? A year or longer? Did he introduce himself as Franklin?

Of course, he did. Not even a decade could change that.

Exotic. That’s how he thinks it sounds, but there’s nothing exotic about it. The only thing remotely unique is that it’s not a common name. Not these days.

Oh, please don’t cry. It’s not your fault this home is wrecked. You didn’t know, didn’t have any idea he’s committed himself to me. How would you? I suppose you couldn’t know, because he’s lied to himself enough to believe he’s not committed unless he’s in my presence.

Come on in. I’m sorry to keep you out on the stoop. I apologize for the mess. I knew you’d be coming at some point. I just didn’t expect it would be today.

No, don’t be uncomfortable. He’s not here, and I’m not the person to fear. You and I are comrades—victims of his deceit. Nobody suspects a Frank, or Franklin, to be an unfaithful liar after all.

The worst part is, you and I aren’t the only ones. No, there are far more. I’m sorry to break the news, but the sooner you know, the better.

What I honestly don’t understand though, is why he keeps his first name and his gifts the same. Everything else is different. His last name, his career, his favorite food. But he always goes by Frank, and always gives a single marigold flower.

He told me once his mother grew marigolds in their gardens when he was a kid. They made him happy, reminding him of home, of simpler times. I don’t know if it’s true, but I like to think so.

Come in to the kitchen. I’ll make us some tea. Do you like tea? Just plain black tea or a decaf with mint? Me too. Black, or with cream? Oh yes, I have sugar somewhere.

No, he didn’t buy this place, I did.

Yes, he did live here, for quite a long time. Not anymore though. He’s been gone a couple weeks now. I suspect gone for good this time.

I don’t know where he’ll go, but I’m guessing not with you. If he were, you wouldn’t be here with me, holding that marigold like a broken hearted puppy.

Were you bringing it for him? A gesture of your own love, since you haven’t seen him for a while and thought you’d done something wrong. I remember feeling that way the first time. If I’m being honest, many times I’ve wondered where he was, if he’d given up on us.

But there is no us, not really. The only existence of us would be me and you. The two who have figured out his game, who have lost more than we ever should have.

I can see that you’ve lost more, though. Your tummy swells, and I can guess you’ve only got a couple months left until you aren’t just a singular person fraught with hurt.

Come on, let me show you what I started doing with my marigolds when I discovered they were apologies for indiscretion. I wasn’t strong enough to send him away, to let him go. But I found little pieces of revenge through acts as small as destroying his gifts.

The first time I found he was out with someone new I bought a chicken. Now there are many running around back here in the yard. Sit with me, enjoy the tranquility of a little farm I’ve created.

The chickens, you see, love the marigolds. It even makes the yolks of their eggs more vibrant.

If you’re ready, you can give yours to them. It’s cathartic, letting go in this tiny way. A release if you will.

As the last remnants of your flower are swooped up, enjoyed by these lovely creatures, send yourself a message of positivity. A reassurance that it was never you. You are perfect just the way you are. And unfortunately, sometimes bad things happen to good people.

You see, it’s not the thing that happens that makes the person though. No, it’s what you take from it. Me, I created this place, my home, my happy place. It may not be much, but it is mine, and I love it. And you, you’ll be a mother. And what a wonderful mother you will be. You will be strong you will be brave. And you will make lemonade out of these lemon-colored marigold flowers he gave.