Golden Child

My mom had a few simple pleasures in life. She enjoyed a warm mug of coffee on a crisp Autumn morning. She loved to go outside and smell the air before it began to rain. In the Springtime, when the bees began to emerge from their hibernation, you could find my mother outside laying in the grass, letting the bees land on her arms and her nose. Most importantly, my mother loved her garden.

We lived in a small wooden cabin secluded from town. We didn’t always used to live in this cabin. We used to live in the center of town. Mom used to own an art supplies store with my father, and during the slow business hours, mom would be in the back of the store in her personal studio painting pictures of the garden she always dreamed of having. Mom did not have a lot of friends. In fact, most of the townspeople stayed away from her. I do not know a lot about my father. My mom would tell me that he felt a calling in another direction and followed it.

I don’t know much about my mom’s childhood, either. She didn’t grow up in the town. I’m not sure when she moved to the town or why. I do know that when dad disappeared, she turned our old house in town into a rental space. I’ve never been allowed to meet any of the people who rent the house. Every time a renter leaves, mom buys a marigold plant and plants it in the garden.

Growing up, mom always told me that I was her golden child. She named me Aelia, which literally translates to ‘sun’ in the Ancient Roman language. My mom has had only three rules for me: 1) be home before dark, 2) don’t wander too far into the forest, and 3) in absolutely no circumstances should I go in her garden. She guarded that garden with her life. Whenever I asked her why I was not allowed in her garden, she would tell me that ‘her garden is where her life lies.’ I never understood what that meant.

One morning, I walked out of my bedroom and into the kitchen. Mom was sitting in her rocking chair, sipping her usual cup of coffee while humming the song, You Are My Sunshine. The wood underneath my feet creaked and she spun around in the chair. “Oh, Aelia,” she said, “You’re up. I need you to do me a favor.” I walked to the cupboard and took out a mug. “What’s up, mom?” I asked, pouring some coffee into the mug.

“I need you to go to the gardening store and pick up a pot of marigolds for me.” I abruptly stopped pouring my coffee. I turned to look at her. “You want me to pick up…marigolds?” I asked. Mom nodded her head slowly and swiveled forward in the chair to face the window again.

“Did…did we have another tenant in the old house?” I asked, inching closer. “Yes, but they left late last night,” Mom responded coldly. I couldn’t figure out her tone of voice. We were both quiet for a few seconds before she spoke. “There is cash on the counter. When you arrive, ask for Sarah and ask her to get you a pot of marigolds. Put them at the garden gate. You know the rule.”

“I know,” I sighed. “Don’t go in the garden.”

“I finished my coffee and got dressed. I grabbed the cash off of the counter. Five dollars exactly. I walked outside and around to the side of the house where I kept my bike. The air was crisp, and the sun was shining. Twenty minutes later, I arrived at the edge of town. There were people walking about with shopping bags. A few pick-up trucks lined the streets. The sidewalks reeked of cigarette smoke and spilled beer. I walked my bike to the gardening store and went inside. I looked around at the bags of dirt and walls lined with supplies and different flower pots. I walked up to the counter and rang the bell. A small framed woman came out of the back room and smiled at me. “Hello dear, how may I help you?” she asked cheerily. “Uh, I’m looking for Sarah,” I responded. The lady’s smile turned on a dime. Her eyes squinted at me. “Wait here,” She instructed. A few minutes later, a tall woman with reddish-brown hair tied into a tight pony-tail approached the counter. “You were looking for me?” she asked, looking me up and down. “Uh, yes. My name is Aelia, and my mom sent me here to get a pot of”- Sarah cut me off, “Marigolds?” Her tone was sarcastic. “Yes, a pot of marigolds.” Sarah breathed harshly through her nose and left the counter. She came back a few minutes later and dropped the pot onto the counter. “So, your mom got another one,” Sarah said, typing into the computer. “Another…what?” I asked. Sarah stopped typing and looked at me. Her eyes flashed with worry, and then she shook her head. “Never mind, hon. That’ll be five dollars.” I set the five-dollar bill on the counter and grabbed the pot.

When I arrived home, I left my bike on the dirt road and walked up the steps to the front door. “Hey mom, I got your flowers,” I yelled, opening the door. Mom didn’t respond. I set the marigolds on the dining room table. “Mom?” I yelled. Nothing. I walked back outside to the front of the house and looked around. Mom’s car was gone.

I walked back inside the house and looked at the flower pot. The marigolds were a bright, flushed golden color. I hesitated. Mom had told me to just put them at the gate, but I had never been in the garden before. I grabbed the pot off of the table. “I’ll just peek,” I said aloud to myself.

I walked down the dirt path for about five minutes before approaching the garden. Mom’s garden wasn’t a little tomato patch and rose bush. The garden spread for at least half an acre. There were arches with vines, various vegetable plants, rose bushes, lilac and lavender plants, and different types of herbs and shrubs. It was lush with color and smell. The metal gate surrounding the garden was at least six feet tall and rusted. Each pole was topped with a metal spike. I looked around me to make sure mom wasn’t coming down the road, and I opened the gate.

I was greeted by an orange butterfly. It flapped around my head and out of the gate. I walked along the little trail until I could see a giant patch of marigolds. The marigolds had been spread to fit the shape of a rectangle. As I approached closer, I could see little wooden signs next to each planted pot. I set the marigold pot down and got on my hands and knees. I started to look at the wooden plaques and realized there were names written on them. “Davidson, Whites, Johnson, Rivera…did mom name all of her marigolds?” There were at least twenty wooden plaques.

“What are you doing?” I heard my mom screech. I gasped and jumped up. Mom’s face was as red as her rose bush. She nearly sprinted towards me and grabbed my arm. “What are you doing here?” She screeched again. “I-I’m sorry!” I stammered. “You never let me in here, and I just wanted to take a peek. I’m sorry!” Mom started to drag me out by my arm. I could feel the bruises starting to form. I yanked my arm from her and backed away. “Why are you being like this?” I yelled. “What is so wrong with me being here?” Mom picked up a shovel that was on the ground and began to cry.

“I told you that my life lies in this garden,” She sniffled. “Mom, I don’t know what that means.” Mom looked down at the shovel for a second. “Your father was my life. He did follow a different direction. He followed a woman’s direction.” I continued to back up, but mom continued to step forward. “Mom,” I said. “Mom…is dad back here? Why do all of the pots have names?” Mom continued to step forward. “You were supposed to be my golden child,” she cried. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a little wooden plaque. “This was supposed to be for Mr. Shrill,” she said calmly. I looked back at all of the wooden plaques. The names. They were last names. “Mom are these…were these…the tenants?”

Mom stopped walking. She took a deep breath. “I can’t explain it, Aelia,” She said almost whispering. "The blood makes the soil so rich.” She looked at the wooden plaque again. “I guess this one will be for you.”