Fields

Furious deep reds, angry and muddy oranges, lightning hot yellows, tints of greens and bitter blues, twirl and warp together. They cast a scorching heat and a bloody-red glow across the cobblestone. Cold tears of anguish followed by bouts of hot tears of injustice slough down her cheeks in rotating frequencies. The clattering of hooves and rattling of wheels mix into the cacophony of footfalls pounding ground as a growing crowd rushes to quail the beast. She collapses to her knees, unable to peel her eyes from the sight nor will her legs to move. A gentle hand cups her shoulder and she stifles her sobs.

“I am sorry brother.”

“Hush now. It will be alright. We have each other. I’m just glad you’re safe.” He offers a feeble smile down at her.

Not a soul was home to know what started the fire. All they knew was that it came as swiftly as it consumed and left, taking their entire childhood and safety with it.

The next day, she sifts through the charred remnants of the home with her brother, picking out tarnished remains of their belongings. Their parents had passed away 4 years prior and the 2 of them had been working small jobs in town to get by. All that their parents had been able to leave for them was this roof over their head. That was gone now. She sighs despondently as she caresses a lightly charred locket containing her mother’s initials. At least this was safe. She rubs the ash off on her dress and fastens the warm chain around her neck.

She trudges to the backyard where she was tenderly growing flowers in her memorial garden for their parents. All was gone. Every inch. Save for- wait! Was that-? She rushes forward and all but trips, lowering herself quickly to the pile. She sucks in sharply and with baited breath brushes a trembling finger over the ashes. They dissipate to reveal a single, slightly singed flower. Its golden petals appear like a sunny beacon of hope. She searches for more flowers with a modicum of faith, only to find shriveled dry remains. Her mind flashes to a distant memory of her mother showing her that this particular flower may seem gone, but that wasn’t the case. She tenderly gathers the fallen petals and stuffs them into her apron pocket.

As the sun sets and her brother goes to some of the local inns to beg for board for the night, she takes a walk in the fields outside town. She comes along a riverbank and crouches down to plant the petals from her pocket. “If these can grow into something again, and be reborn with caring and nurturing, I will take it as a sign that I too can be reborn from hardship.”

Every day for the next several months she returns to water and speak to her flowers, even in winter. She asks them if they are alright and warm and that she knows they embody the sun itself and are strong. Sometimes children snicker, sometimes adults stare.

When summer comes back around, her brother takes to working in the mines for enough extra money to pay for the shack they now called home. She manages to secure a position in the local bakery. Every day after baking bread, she goes to her garden to speak to her flowers. As their buds begin to poke from the ground she celebrates, as their leaves stretch she cries. The beautiful golden buds show themselves in the heat of summer and she sings. Worried the sun might harm them, she balances her hat askew on a stick atop them, giving them shade. She stops in at the local haberdashery for a new hat on the way home. She selects a simple and cheap one. She is deft with her hands, however, and weaves dazzling embroideries onto her hat. Her unique work catches the eye of a city folk on vacation in their quaint little town. She is commissioned to her great delight. She wanders down to the riverbank to speak with her flowers while she sews. Every day she does this ritual. New requests come in. When she is offered a position in the city at a finer haberdashery, she accepts without hesitation. She begs her brother to tend her garden while she is away. He had grown sore and tired from the mines anyway, so he takes her role at the bakery and agrees to tend her flowers. A year passes before she returns to visit and bring with her a small savings to gift to her brother, only to have her eyes widen in disbelief as the train nears town. Erupting from the ground are clusters upon clusters of the blossoms, far more than she ever planted. Many have begun to drop their petals for the year, creating a bright orange and yellow blanket across the ground.

She leaps from the train’s platform and rushes right past her waiting brother, back to the riverbank, where she scoops up the multitudes of loose petals and cups them in her hands, watching them overflow and flutter about in descent, like molten lava dripping from her fingers.

Her brother finds her dancing through the field, looking happier than she had in years.

~Billow~

She clings firmly to the steel rod, placing her weight squarely into the soles of her feet-pressing them tightly against each other on the very precipice of the outer step- and allows the remaining entirety of her body to fall forward. The wind paws at her dress, flapping it about every which way, tousles her long braid draped over the side of her shoulder, and attempts to swoop beneath the brim of, and snatch, her woven straw hat. She places a hand swiftly atop the crown of her head to reclaim it from Nature’s thief. The wind whistles its annoyance in her ear and joins in shrill tandem with the train’s own whistle before being drowned out completely by the steam-fueled sound for a moment. She sucks a deep lungful in through her nostrils, allows her eyelids to close, and slowly releases her last lungful of this place’s air as they reopen. Watching through the fringe of her eyelashes, the sunlight dapples through the leaves of trees and swirls and dances, casting thousands of golden dots across the landscape. It feels as though the very sun itself blesses her leaving, as though affirming that beyond those borders there is definitely a brighter future, one of prosperity and luck. The fire within her soul burns brightly, twisting a savage and primal dance within her as she feels a calmness ease itself over her shoulders like a blanket until the town shrinks away and vanishes from sight. Satisfied, she uprights herself and enters the carriage. As she seats herself, the train whizzes past the field of marigolds. The radiant image burns itself into her mind as she serenely slips into slumber.

3 years later-

There hangs a portrait, admired by many that are draped in silks and feathered hats, powdered curls and delicate lace fans, fine leather and pearl clutches, handbags, satin gloves. The stitching of each and every item masterfully placed and deliberate, , the softest and sturdiest materials chosen. On the arm of these adorned creatures were coiffured mustaches, donning the sharpest headwear, bowler and top hat alike, with satin sashes, bequeathing their excellence. Tucked and starched to perfection were their tailcoats, their collars, flat and peaked in all the exactly correct spots. Fine Italian leather shone brilliantly against their feet, with carved and polished canes hanging on the nooks of their inner elbows. On the lapel of each waistcoat there was placed proudly a singular marigold, of varying hues betwixt the onlookers. They chattered softly amongst themselves, and she watched from afar as her painting drew admiration. The buzz was constant, steady, abundant, eyes drawn to the painting and unable to pry themselves from the wistfulness it evoked. She was not even remotely surprised when the night drew to an end and her painting had earned her an offer of wealth to set her for life.

She sat down with a pen and quill, and began to pen correspondence to her beloved brother.

“I have made it. I am sending to you this check, please ensure your every need is tended, plant more marigolds in the field, and use the remaining for the town funds.”

She had started from humble beginnings, but the marigold returned each year stronger and more beautiful, overcoming death itself. She promised herself she could too, and worked hard each day to create with her own hands, something that drew the eyes of those around her, earning her enough to give back to those who were without family, those who needed something as simple as a flower to encourage them and give them meaning and strength. She was proud, and smiled as she stamped a marigold onto the letter’s wax seal.