Marigolds Forever

The midday heat awakened a groggy Aila. She turned around on her bed and the springs on the cheap mattress croaked under her weight. A bejeweled barrette hung from one of the strands of her messy hair. Traces of last night’s makeup darkened her eyes, and her contacts were stuck solid on them. Bright sunlight poured through the window, making the speckles on the dusty panes visible. Thin, yellow curtains hung above it, from a metal rod held up by cement nails on either side. The bedcovers were new at least, and their bright colors contrasted against the muted wall, with patches of spackle here and there. Aila sat up- and her head started spinning. She held on to the worn-out, wooden back of the bed, and put her bare feet on the blue and white ceramic tile floor. The coolness of it was a welcome relief for her aching feet. Yesterday had been a long day- and a rowdy night.

She had been south of the border in her younger days, with some friends. Everything looked familiar, but different at the same time. The outside street air was filled with the calling voices of tamale, tortilla, and other vendors, as they announced their products. Her head pounded and her body still had the chills. Suddenly someone knocked on the wooden door. “Who is it?”- she asked. “Buenos dias!”- replied a female voice in Spanish from behind it, almost singing its greeting. As she opened the door, there stood a short lady, clad in a pink t-shirt and jeans. Her shiny black hair was done in pigtails. Her smile was bright and kind. “I brought some breakfast, señora. Hope you slept well. Welcome to my hostel”. Her name was Mariela, the owner and manager of the place. In her hands she carried a colorful tray with a plate of chilaquiles (tortilla chips bathed in a red sauce and topped with chicken, plus crema, onion, and cheese) and a warm cup of coffee. Just what she needed to recover! After breakfast, a good shower, and a change of clothes, Aila went downstairs. She saw Mariela dusting some rugs on the front porch. “Thank you for breakfast’-said Aila. “Oh, anytime!”- said Mariela. “My pleasure”. Then Mariela stopped what she was doing and called Aila a little closer. “Just be very careful around here when you venture out. It could be dangerous señora! Please- be careful!”. Aila saw the look of concern in Mariela’s eyes. Last night had been wild. She only had a hazy memory of leaving the local tavern and handing the taxi driver the address to Mariela’s hostel written on a piece of paper. The rest was a blur.

She wanted to mark this time in her life by going back to the place where her young adulthood began. But it was different this time, as she was now older and had come by herself. Her divorce had undone every projection she had for what she thought was a future with her spouse. A tear came to her eye as she still asked the same unanswered questions ever since she was callously and unceremoniously dumped: Is love really like that? Does it fade away with time? It is only passionate and tender at the beginning- when youth is on one’s side and time seems abundant? Does it deteriorate with the passing of each trial, with the loss of things, the gaining of things and the changes in one’s appearance brought about by time? Is it so fragile, that it can be snatched away by someone younger, prettier, stronger, smarter, and more successful?

It sure seemed so. She remembered once being a beaming bride posing on the steps of City Hall, next to her beloved- the one who had promised her forever. Aila opened her phone to see the pictures she had stored, and there it was. Her wedding day in the summer of 1990. Her hair was copious then. The bright red lipstick, heavy eyeliner and teased hair had beautified her for that day, in the fashion of that time. The puffy sleeves and pompous miniskirt of her dress surely made a contrast against the understated suit of her love, her high school sweetheart, the quiet young man who had won her over with his poetry and intelligence. She could still remember the smell of gel on his hair, intertwining with that of his cologne and seeing her reflection within his large, light brown eyes. And the claps, the cheers as they went down the steps. Her father’s balding head shining in the midday sun and the redness on his cheeks and nose. Her mother’s carefully coiffed hair resisting any blowing wind. And her aunts. Her younger siblings. Her new in-laws. It had been a beautiful family affair indeed.

But now, it was a different picture. Her beloved father had passed away a few years ago. Her mother had passed as well, after a long illness. Her sister Addie married a foreigner, and he took her away from the USA to live in his homeland. But she barely heard from Addie anymore. It seemed to her that the husband had restricted communication, perhaps afraid that Addie would miss her life in the USA and would try to go back. Her brother had been a resident of an adult group home for veterans for a few years. She had visited him at the home a few times, but Aidan never wanted to talk much. He relied on medications to sleep and stay calm. His psychiatrist had said that he was stable but that his present condition was most likely, permanent. Of course, her ex’s family had taken his side and had become as strangers to her during the past two years, leading up to the divorce.

As Mariela walked into the building and some of the dust she shook lingered in the air, Aila’s tears took over. What had her life become? Where were all the dreams? All the plans? Then her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar scent in the air. Through her blurry eyes, she could see a vendor pushing a big, blue metal cart up the dusty street. Her strong calves propelled her forward with ease as her skirt waved in the wind. “Caléndulas! Caléndulas!”- she called out. Aila wiped her eyes and recognized the familiar plant that went along with the familiar scent. Why, they were Marigolds! Big, yellow, beautiful Marigolds. Aila smiled and quickly ran to the vendor and told her: “I’ll take two, please”. After handing the lady some pesos, Aila took her Marigold pots inside. The familiar color, smell and look had brought her a feeling of comfort and peace. She took them into her room, set them on the bare dresser top and pulled out the photos of both of her parents. She kissed each photo and placed them together, with both Marigold pots on either side. As she cried some tears again, she pronounced these words: “Mom and dad- I love you and miss you every day. Wish you were here to love me and comfort me. But at least, I will always carry you in my heart”. She wiped away those few tears and laid down to rest some more.

As she fell asleep looking at the pictures of her parents, she reminisced happier times, when her mother would plant them in the front yard of her family home and take care of them every Saturday morning. Her memories took her to the day she had won her first competition. Her family was sitting on the sidelines and as she crossed the finish line before everyone else, they ran to her from the stands with balloons and flags. Her mother handed her a bouquet of Marigolds and told her: “You see- life is very much like this race. You will always have competition. You will always feel like the road ahead is long. There will be times when you will question your worth, your abilities, whether you measure up to the others. Listen- there will always be someone smarter, prettier, younger, or more intelligent than you, but this in no way diminishes your worth as you are unique- nothing, no one can replace you. You may have other abilities they do not. So, no matter who is left behind in the race, or who is running ahead of you, remember, to always keep your eyes on the finish line”.

At this, a blaring sound shook her. The alarm on her cell phone had gone off and awakened her from her sleep. Yet she arose with a spring on her step. “The race is not over! No matter who leaves…no matter who stays…I will keep my eyes…on the finish line!” She kissed both her parent’s pictures again, put them in her bag and gathered up the room. She washed her face, combed her hair, and brushed her teeth. She raced downstairs carrying both marigold pots in each hand. Mariela was already in the kitchen concocting another delicious meal for her weary, culture-hungry guests. It was dinnertime. “Mariela, would you please call a taxi for me?”- said Aila. Mariela dropped the serving ladle into the steaming pot of soup and asked surprised: “Why señora? You no stayin?” Aila shook her head with a smile and put both plants on Mariela’s kitchen windowsill. “These are for you”. Mariela smiled with confusion. “Ok”- said she. “But you no stayin’ for dinner? No dinner?”- “No”- replied Aila. – “Gotta go back! Time to keep running my race”. She gave Mariela a quick hug and told her: “Keep the remainder of what I paid you”. Mariela made a gesture as if she wanted to refund Aila the rest of her money, but Aila gently closed Mariela’s fist around the few banknotes she was trying to hand her. – “Keep them”- Aila insisted. “Thank you for everything”. Mariela smiled and handed her a plastic container with some of the soup and some hot tortillas, inside a colorful cloth bag.

As the taxi driver pulled over in front of Mariela’s place, in a small green car, the night’s sky was painted purple and bright blue. The timid lights on the city streets were shining like fireflies dancing in a summer’s night. As Aila struggled with the weight of her backpack, the driver came out- a tall man with broad shoulders and thick curly hair. A pair of full eyebrows and a slight stubble adorned his face. “Please- let me help you” said he, in clear English and proceeded to take her bag from her and place it in the car’s trunk. Aila was taken back. “Are you American?” asked she, with a smile. “Sort of”- said he smiling back and looking into her eyes. “I was born in the USA- but my parents are from here. I had to move to help take care of them. They don’t want to live there and there are no proper care facilities here”. The driver opened the back passenger door for her to get in. – “I’m Marcos, by the way. And you?”- “Aila”, she responded, shaking the hand he had offered. Marcos led the conversation the rest of the way. On his dashboard, there were old family pictures adorned with Marigold flowers stuck all around them. “You see”, said Marcos, gently running his finger across one of the photos. “Those who love you will always be with you. Love never dies”. Aila smiled, breathing in not only his affirmation, but also a renewed hope for her future. As she brushed away her hair and wiped away a new tear-this time of joy, she assured to herself. “I will race to my finish line, because love never dies”.