For ____

The woman stared out the window, through the steel railings of her balcony, down at the bustling park below. Her eyes trailed the path of an aged couple shuffling past the fountain in the center of the courtyard, each with a cotton candy in hand. A soft breeze breathed life into their snowy hair, and a tinge of envy singed the woman's heart when she saw them face one another and lift their heads in loving mirth, before they continued their lazy afternoon walk.

Past the bubbling fountain waters and the children running in circles around its stone balusters, rows of painters and artists sat before their canvases, capturing the world drenched in sunlight as the gentle wind of happiness lifted the spirits of all those in their midst. As the surrounding trees yearned for the skies, so the hearts of those gathered seemed to ever rise, and the chime of laughter intertwined with the chatter of conversation drifted its way past the windows and into the woman's room.

She rolled away from the window to face the grim wood of her dresser. Sitting atop its cluttered surface was a crystal vase, and within them a cluster of drooping marigolds, bent so low that they nearly kissed the dresser top. She stared at the sad flowers for a long while, her mind dim and her thoughts clouded, until she fell into a hazy, restless slumber.

When she awoke, the sun was still glorying above the earth, though now its rays flooded her own room. Life was breathed into the dejected marigolds for the time being, and what color they had lost from the passage of time was revitalized, their dry, lifeless petals seemingly quivering from golden warmth. But no, that was only the rustling of leaves on the tree outside her window.

Her growling stomach reminded her of her failure to eat that day, and the accompanying cramping berated her for neglecting the previous day's dinner as well. Sighing, she groped at a glass of water on her bedstand, bringing it languidly to her lips.

She watched the marigolds over her cup as she gulped down the lukewarm liquid. She found herself not being able to bear the sight of them. Her husband had bought them for her the day before his passing, as he had every Wednesday evening.

"For when you're exhausted," he would say, pecking her on the forehead. "The middle of the week is most difficult. Get past today, and all we must do then is look forward to the weekend." How strange it was then, that a gift of encouragement could burden her heart so, a reminder of the sting of sorrow which had settled itself at and made a home of the doorstep to her heart. Whenever she dared venture out of it, she found its dark cloud guarding the doorway, and she would shut the door once more and seclude herself within her dark mind-prison.

In a sudden burst of fury and anguish, she climbed out of her sheets for the first time in days. Her legs were burdensome to swing out of bed, but weak and wobbly once she stood upon them. She took the vase from its place on the dresser, scattering several things onto the ground as she did so. She slid open the door to the balcony and set the marigolds upon the concrete floor. She looked upon the exhausted flowers for a heart-wrenching moment, feeling as if she were truly parting with her husband were she to close the door.

She shut the door partway and walked with leaden feet out the bedroom door, the lump in her throat growing with each step. The apartment was heavy with darkness and in a dismal state. Lines of light peeked through the slits between the window blinds like illuminated prison bars, making it seem as if the apartment was in a strange, purgatory state of incomplete day and night, suffocating her even further.

I must get out, she thought. She was already standing--all she must do was leave through the doorway to exit her unit, then out the front doors to be engulfed by the park and its effulgent atmosphere. She slipped into a thin cardigan to cover the traces of lethargy of the past months, and in what was a blur of several crowded minutes, she found herself outside the building and in the park.

Unlike earlier in the day when the park was overflowing with vitality, the late afternoon had settled upon it an ostensibly lackadaisical fog-like air--warm, halcyon, leisurely. The children had all gone home for dinner, and so their tinkling laughter had been replaced by the subdued humdrum of conversation of adults on walks after their long days at work. The woman could not help but notice that most were couples, hand-in-hand, strolling about the dirt pathways amongst the trees. Sometimes they would smile at her, and she would nod back in equanimity, much to her own surprise. She found that the openness of the natural outdoors had an attenuating effect on her sorrow, though at times she would pass by a particular bench where she and her husband had enjoyed a croissant or bagel together whilst sipping coffee, or a tree where she had posed and forced him to take innumerable pictures of her; and she would need to gather her strength to swallow the all too familiar feeling of a sob creeping up her chest, threatening to overwhelm her.

She swiftly wiped the tears pooling underneath her eyes and walked briskly to the nearby pond, where a gardener tended to clusters of flowers at the foot of a placid hill. As he shifted from cluster to cluster, the golden marigolds revealed themselves and greeted her.

For when I am most exhausted, she thought. When I am at my lowest, and I need the strength to take each step, each day. She walked slowly to the marigolds, frilled and folded in their brilliant golden-orange adornment. She turned to the gardener, summing up all her courage.

"May I pick one?"

The gardener looked up at her, adjusting his wide-brimmed hat, and inspected their surroundings.

"Normally, no, but as it happens, we are alone." He plucked one by the stem and held it up to her delicately. "Don't tell anyone it was me."

"Thank you."

She took the flower in her hand, and the gardener turned back to his work. She held it up to her nose and breathed deeply. Her mind was flooded with the vivacious memories and sparkling recollections of times past and gone into the wind like a lost balloon, visible but forever unattainable.

How she wished she were a rising balloon at that moment! She felt as if she were a hot-air balloon, trapped under a roof. Perhaps she could resign herself to her fate, and forever skim the ceilings until she ran out of air and settled into a muddled heap upon the ground. But it was that part of her, deep within her mind, the nudging feeling that told her she must find a way out--that she could soar if she were but set free under the open skies--which would torture her were she to acquiesce.

She felt an onslaught of despair inevitably descending upon her, so she clenched her jaw and hastily made her way back to the courtyard, back to her apartment. She passed the places which were the vestiges of more joyful times in her life--the tree, the bench, the lamp post. As she hurried past the painters and artists, she halted before a particular one.

The others had painted intricate scenes of life in the park--the old friends frowning at the chess board, the children at the cotton candy stand, the mother fishing her son out of the fountain, the father with his daughter upon his shoulders. Each was a vivid recapturing of transient moments, the sum of which we call life, she supposed. But the one that caught her attention was a still life of an exceedingly familiar scene.

There was the crystal vase, capturing the curtain of sunlight and iridescent with a hundred lustrous colors; and the wilted marigolds, drooped over the vase's sides like children stooped over a boat's gunwales. Yet the artist had taken the liberty to add one final touch of his own onto the painting. In the center of the vase amongst the dead and dying marigolds was a single stalk, blooming tall as if pining for the skies above, seizing the outpouring of warmth and light. The artist's rapid brushstrokes had captured the vivacity of the marigold's strength, and its petals seemed to quaver with the desire for life.

She followed the artist's gaze as he went about his creation, and her eyes rested upon the flowers she had cast outside her room. She felt a torrent within her chest, signaling the awakening of a deep hunger that she had forgotten was there. She looked upwards, and her eyes plunged into the vastness of the clear sky. There she stood, waiting until the painter had finished his work. With a sigh of satisfaction, he inspected the marigolds as they dried before packing his bags and materials.

Tucking her own marigold safely against her bosom, the woman marched onwards, towards her apartment building, through the doors, and into her own unit. Such was life, she knew. Sorrow, happiness, joy, tears, memories--but marching onwards all the same, and doing all that was possible by her own strength. She slid open the door to her balcony, where the downcast and acquiescent marigolds greeted her. She took the vase and set it upon her dresser.

"For encouragement," she whispered, setting the marigold from the park in amongst the collection of flowers. It stood tall and upright, glowing with vibrant life.