Marigolds

They call them “flor the muerto,” but that really makes no sense to me. Does that mean they attract death, or are they for the death?

“Marigolds.” – my mother firmly repeated with a worrisome look – “are you sure you can drive with your new medications?” She asked as she was sipping on her third cup of coffee.

“I’ll walk,” I said reassuringly. I quickly grabbed my bag and white sneakers and made my way to the door as to put an end to the discussion. “Pink and orange marigolds.” I parroted as I was closing the door on my mother’s uneasy face.

As I stepped out into the smoky and disruptive traffic that’s all I could think about, or rather, that’s all I could allow myself to think about. Marigolds. I couldn’t think about death. I couldn’t think about the body, burnt down into ashes, stored in a tiny box, stowed in a mausoleum underneath the church.

I had to keep moving. That’s all I knew.

I had to keep moving and fast.

If I allowed myself to go back even for a second it was only to gain momentum; to gain speed and propel myself forward.

I wasn’t going to think about the body.

Or the box.

I leaned on the hood of a white Jetta and with the ability of an intoxicated baboon I attempted to replicate my grandmother’s tilted and dainty calligraphy. I paused and assessed my childish scribbles:

Marigolds

Sugar skulls

Papel picado

Salt

Water

Candle

Pictures

I chewed the pen cap for a second. I dreaded the process of rescuing a photo from one of her old albums. She used to share these pictures with me like plump pieces of cake, bringing them to the table and stacking them up for me to see.

“This is me outside my college, you know, it wasn’t common for women to attend university back then, I was one of two in my class.” Her pride was contagious, and I would delight in this self-fulfillment as if it were my own accomplishment.

For such a feminist, I must admit, my grandma married someone who wasn’t shy about his views on women, “women belong in the house.” He even says it right now to all of those who are patient enough to listen.

I clumsily crossed out water and salt since I obviously knew my mom had them at home. I purchased some papel picado at the closest papelería and directed my steps towards a flower store.

“She died first because she tamed all of her demons; she made peace with life. He hasn’t” My mom said as I was trying to poetically phrase my problems with my grandfather’s philosophy on women.

Marigolds. I reminded myself as I hurriedly rushed to the florería. There was no rush, really, except, of course, to escape my calamitous thoughts. If I stopped to think I would have to admit to myself that this pain was growing inside of me like vines taking over every corner of myself, growing under and across, hardening my vessels and veins, hurting and itching.

It wasn’t my responsibility, that she married that man, whom I love despite all. That she chose that life. That she was and she is, and she remains. It is not my responsibility. But it makes me wonder, and it makes me scared of how fast time passes and how awful my life is turning out to be – and it’s not because of a “him” it’s because of a “me.”

“Marigolds,” I blurted out distractedly, as I stumbled into the store.

“What color?”, “How many?” demanded the busy storekeeper. She was holding at least two dozen carnations in her hands, and the white blossoms were covering her impatient semblance.

Confused I looked at my list for answers knowing full-well that there wasn’t a number in there.

“A dozen?”

“Is that a question?”

"I don’t know” I faltered, as I felt a ball of emotion building up in my chest. All the vines inside of me were looking for room to grow—a way out into the light. Tangled and unhinged I could feel their pointy ends crawling into my throat, hugging my nostrils, puncturing my lungs.

Keep moving. Keep moving. Not now.

“Is it for an ofrenda?” A young girl, who couldn’t have been more than 15, offered.

But my mind was gone, all I could think of was death, and the body burnt down into ashes, stored in a tiny box, stowed in a mausoleum underneath the church.

This pain had taken all of me in the most inadequate place I could think of, and there was no one I could lean on for help.

“I don’t know” I repeated as I put the bag containing the papel picado on the floor. I could feel little pearls of cold sweat on my forehead, running like ants across my skin. I wanted to cry, or was I crying? Was I actively crying in a flower store? What was the moment in my life that every single small task became so undefeatable? So insurmountable? When did the world become so big and I so small?

“A dozen” The girl, who I can only assume was the shopkeeper’s assistant, stated. “A dozen marigolds coming right up.”

“Pink and orange,” I muttered.

I sat down on the floor and allowed the pain to come over me. I could hear the assistant getting the flowers and the oblivious shopkeeper fixing bouquets and trimming stems.

“They sell lovely sugar skulls two stores down,” the assistant commented as I was paying.

After getting my skulls, my tired and swollen feet carried me to the church. I kneeled next to the mausoleum and let my vines come out and unfold – growing and planting their roots as they came out.

“All this pain, all this beauty.”

I gently placed the marigolds by her tiny box.

“I’ll see you on the Day of the Death.” I said aloud, defying the rest of the bodies who were resting in there.

With a slower pace I walked back home feeling lighter.

“It’s late, I was worried.” My mom said, not looking worried at all. “Where are the marigolds?”