Marigold’s Ballad

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky.

Marigold dreamt of hazy blues and reds and yellows high in the clouds, even as every night she would awaken at exactly midnight to this strange violet phenomenon. It was trying to tell her something, but she didn’t know what.

She woke up with her frizzy, curly dark brown hair over her eyes. She saw there was gray streaking through, silver shining down. She did not mind. She was a woman who never wore make up; naturally, she was pretty, and had light brown eyes that looked amber in the sunlight. She was a loner but she had many people who loved her, as she was kind and gave away her time and energy to help those in need. There was something about the morning that felt raw to her, an intense feeling of melancholy that was driving her to stay in bed. But, she knew she had to get up.

Her light brown skin shone in the morning light as she got ready for her day.

She was ready, but she felt like she was sinking into the weight of her thoughts—a sinking that couldn’t let her escape. Marigold fought it, and took in deep breaths. Her anxiety was high, but she grounded herself, thinking of something that made her feel safe.

Those magnificent creatures—-the lovely Scarlet Macaw. She fluttered her eyes, and sank into the sun-lit window of her bedroom, day-dreaming of their migrating flight.

She had never truly felt attached to her human skin, she always felt as though she connected to animals much more easily. Out of all the protagonists in literature, she was always drawn back to Fern, the little girl who talked to animals in Charlotte’s Web. In times of stress or turmoil, she’d always picture herself as Fern, able to relate to and talk to any and all of the animals and insects and even spiders.

But, mainly, she wished to be among the birds. Especially the Macaw, a vibrant and most intensely beautiful creature.

She was poor, of limited education and of background, and had no opportunity to advance her status beyond an menial elementary education—-as the Ornithology career she so passionately wanted to pursue, it required at the very least a Bachelors degree in wildlife biology or a life science. So, she worked day in and day out as a cleaning lady at a laboratory.

As she left her small apartment of San Pedro to walk to her job, she kept count of her heart beat. She immediately wanted to represent her fast beating heartbeat to the swift flying of the gorgeous red Macaw—-forty miles per hour.

She walked past the familiar beachfront wooden houses, seafood restaurants and bars, and sighed.

As she started her day, it went by as a whirlwind, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes and sizes and muddled up decorations that were dirtied with the wind swept pain she kept buried deep down inside.

Her boss yelled that she was too slow. The voice cracked and the facade broke, her eyes down to the floor she cleaned, and she nodded, her body mechanical and slow, though she sped up her actions as though she were a wind-up doll, only for use when needed.

A co-worker found her on a break to ask her out for a weekend party, and then proceeded to tell her of their own troubles without once asking how she was feeling.

She scrubbed and wiped and polished and shined and swept and mopped and cleaned and it all felt pointless since the next day, she would do it all over again.

Then—-it was him.

The smoky, green eyed man that always smiled at her when she left work to go home.

He smiled at her, and waved—-just as she was halfway from her work to get home.

Just then, three street performers started to play music.

The piano, violin and cello all created a sad, strange gothic serenade that shook something deep inside of Marigold.

All her life she was shown to be passed by. All her life, she felt like nothing special. Just a human girl who carried too much weight on her shoulders but still could move forward, strong and brave. That was nothing, she thought. So many others do that and more. ‘What am I to be? What is my destiny?’ She thought.

“What’s your name?”

He looked surprised, not expecting her to speak to him first. It was audacious in a way that made her seem more alive, and he liked it.

“Cove.” His smile suggested a demure and safe invitation, something she wasn’t used to. “Yours?”

“Marigold.”

They seemed to have a deep kinship that was felt through their stare, and it delved into their pain, which also felt similar.

No words, just fluid movement.

A dance between strangers, yet it seemed oddly familiar.

A French singer belting out, the violinist from the earlier performance, sings an old familiar ballad.

As a African-Belizean, Marigold always felt a bit left out of the group when it came to social circles, where most of her classmates came from the republics of El Salvador and Nicaragua—-even as they were most of the time welcoming and kind, she excluded herself on the basis of always feeling out of place. She told herself she didn’t fit into the scope of humanity as a whole. Race and gender and social circles had nothing to do with it to her; she had no words to explain this to anyone.

Except that time—-

The time when she was young.

The time the tree fell—-and almost landed on her.

And he pushed her to safety.

Someone with smoky, green eyes and a kind smile. Like this man. The man she was dancing with—-

Her eyes widened.

“Do you remember?” He whispered. “Do you remember now?”

There was a chill to the air, and as the breeze hit the pair, a strange set of trilling noises hit their ears, familiar and new, yet old and beautiful and heartbreaking.

“The time… before our home was preserved?” She said in a small, painful speech, and he nodded.

“At…” He didn’t finish the name.

“It can’t be…” she stood still, frozen in fear, then backing away, she let out a silent, panicked breath.

“We are one, always—-always and forever, true as the day that tree almost fell on you, and you hurt your wing.”

She almost laughed, instead she scoffed at his words. “Wing? You mean my arm? My dad had to bandage it up..”

“The ranger. The one who helps protect us.”

And then… she nodded. Her eyes closed and she remembered her old recurring dream:

As a Native Scarlet Macaw, her habitat had been settled along in the hills outside the Mayan village of Red Bank in Southern Belize, she had always belonged. The days of migrating to enjoy the fruits of the annatto tree were enough to feel at home even with the other species, even as they were welcoming and non-threatening—-she felt at peace and grounded when she was with him.

And when they’d return, the humans would tear down their home.

And that day, a large tree fell as she was mid-air, and he saw—-diving in to get her out of the trunk’s path just in time.

Her wing was injured, and he would nurse her back to health.

A Ranger found the pair of Macaws, and drove them to a special reserve.

Marigold opened her eyes.

“It was called… Marigold’s Cove,” She whispered. “Our new home. A nature reserve I heard the human say.”

He nodded. “And we loved one another. Forever—it was our promise.”

“That’s why my past is so hazy…” she said sadly. “And why I remember the book from the ranger.. that he read aloud to us as Macaws…”

He took her hand. “The book of the spider’s magical web and the pig?” He laughed. “Yes. You wished you were Fern.”

Her eyes widened, and she nodded in affirmation of his words.

“If we kiss, we’ll go back to our first true form, mi amor,” He said.

The surroundings around them, once so sharp and vivid, now seemed dream-like and hazy with fluffy violet puffs gleaming near. It reminded Marigold of the blushing purple clouds, and it swirled around them like a mystical spell, making her feel dizzy.

“Even as a Macaw—your eyes were a smoky yellowish green—you are so beautiful..” she whispered, moving close to him.

He smiled, his soft, sweet features looming in closer toward her aching heart—and their beat was in focus, one beat.

They kissed, and a whirlwind of fall leaves, a gust of swirling purple clouded wind and a strange crackle of electricity hit the air from the ground up—-

And suddenly, the lovers were gone.

The busy denizens amongst the beach town stood still, a collective chill hit them all; they couldn’t believe or fathom the strange event that had unfolded—-three seconds later, everyone went about their day, realizing it was either an example of mass delusion to even discuss it, or just plain rudeness to suggest it had happened—-and no one brought it up. Except in private, to their secret journals(not their mothers).

A pair of vibrant hues: Red, green and yellows hit the humid sky in a deep sea of sun soaked dreamy flight.

They were finally free.

******

Fin.

Author note: Thank you for reading.

Here is some information about the Scarlet Macaw.