The Marigold

I remember I was walking, I was walking through the city. Watching each color pass me by. Black, white, black, white, black, white. Each hue tainting my soul, each color burning into my brain, such was life. That's how it was, how many think it was meant to be.

One day when I was walking I spotted something a hint of yellow and orange among a field of pail daisies. It was unheard of, it had never been seen before. I had never seen it before, and I assumed I’d never see it again as the neighbor chopped the weed from its stem.

“Oh, neighbor? What is that? Can I have it?” I asked her, she gave me a stern look.

“This is a marigold, an ugly weed among my beautiful daisies, and no you most certainly CAN’T have it. One day you’ll know why, when the color drains from your face. You will learn to hate the marigolds.”

I was in shock, I was astounded, such a beautiful thing was a weed? I thought confused staring at the other flowers surrounding it. It looks like all the others. Is something so beautiful, really that terrible?

I picked up the beheaded marigold, silently placing it in my pocket and went back to my walk. Soon seeing my house in the distance. My mother is smiling at the door, my father is on his computer playing the stock market like a horse race.

I rushed down stairs to show my sister, my dear sister, I wish she was here now. She looked at the flower in fear.

“Put that back in your pocket,” she said, peering at her dresser.

“Do you know what they’ll do if they find out you have a weed in your pocket?”

“It's not a weed!” I cried

“It's beautiful.” my sister nodded once again looking at her own dresser.

“I know, it is, but no one else sees it that way. You can have it, just don’t let anyone know. That's the only way to live with a marigold in your pocket.” I looked at the yellow flower with a touch of sadness in my heart, could I truly show no one? Must I live in fear of all who see it? It was just a flower, it would be one thing if it was a gun or the trigger of an atom bomb, but a flower?

I reluctantly headed my sister’s advice, keeping my flower hidden from the people around me. I would walk more, in hopes of finding another with a marigold in their pocket in hopes of sharing it with someone, anyone. One day would come as I spotted the red of a poppy sitting in the hair of a nearby boy no one scorned him, though some gawked at the bright colors of the flower.

I approached the boy, who asked me to play house with him. I agreed to his kind offer, taking the opportunity to ask about his poppy. He shrugged

“It's just a flower,” he said somewhat irritated

“I know,” I said as I showed him the marigold in my pocket. He stared at it excitedly as though the stars had broken open and allowed him a look at the universe.

“I don’t see many flowers these days,” the boy admitted, clutching the poppy on his shirt.

“Have you told anyone?” he asked as he peered around. I shook my head.

“My sister said not to, she said it's dangerous.”

“Oh, nonsense.” the boy chuckled the stares of the people burning into him.

“What about your parents? Have you told them?” he prodded. I shook my head again slightly more at ease with my new friend. The boy looked at me baffled by the idea not even my parents knew of my secret flower.

“That's a very important thing they should know,” he said

“But what if they get mad at me?” I responded to the states beginning to burn into the back of my head.

“Their your parents, your flesh and blood, their job is to love and protect you till you can protect yourself. Why would they hate you over a tiny flower?” he uttered confusedly.

He was right, my parents had always said they’d always love me. They always did their best to keep me healthy. When I was sad they’d pick me up. Which was most of the time as I was often sad. I settled to tell them that afternoon, after dinner. As I walked home I found another flower, a dalia, a beautiful orange coating it with hints of yellow-tinted the edges. It was just as, if not more beautiful than the Marigold. Perhaps having both would be easier I thought as I plucked it out of the ground.

I sat them down barely ready to get the words out.

“I have to tell you something,” I said as my heartbeat began to quicken. Each bone in my body, each muscle, each nerve knew then and there what was about to happen. If only my brain was as smart as the rest of me then maybe I could have stopped.

My mother shook her head with a tired look on her face.

“Don’t tell me you have weed?” she said, barely letting me go through my thoughts, letting me say anything. The woman who’d let a friend talk their ear off didn’t have time for me to say anything more. I should have stopped there, but I had to tell them. I couldn’t keep it to myself. It was killing me, I took a deep breath hoping things would ease up as I pulled the two flowers from my pocket.

“I have two-” My father started charging towards me before I could finish. I rushed down our hallway, my mother’s wailing in the background as a part of me shriveled up inside me. I shut myself in my room. My father banging on the door.

“YOUR JOKING!” He screamed the force of his body pressing against the door.

“I SWEAR TO GOD YOU BETTER BE JOKING!!!!” At first, I said ‘no’. I wanted it to stop. That being said, the truth needed to be heard, I needed to let them know the truth. My soul wouldn’t let me be quiet. I told my father I wasn’t joking. His banging became more furious as his yells and my mother’s wailing echoed through the walls.

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?!?” she screeched

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT PEOPLE WITH WEEDS DO?!? THEY PLANT THEM! THEY PLANT THE WEEDS DEEP IN THE GROUND TO SPROUT BACK UP!!!”

I opened the bedroom window pressing the screen out and making my escape. All the while thinking about what my mother said. Plant them? Planting flowers? Isn’t that what everyone does. That's what the neighbor would do. How were my flowers any different from hers? I hid in my neighbor's garden crying as I clutched the marigold to my chest. As I clutched this piece of me desperate for salvation. I felt a tap on my shoulder meeting the eyes of the boy with the poppy shirt. He looked at me saddened as he reached his hand out to comfort me. My anger boiled inside as I looked at my only source of relief.

“THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!” I screamed, chuckling the dalia at him.

“THEY HATE ME! THEY HATE ME AND IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!!!” The boy backed away startled by my yelling.

“I didn’t mean to…” he cried

“I really didn-”

“ARE YOU DEAF?!? GO AWAY I DON’T WANT ANYTHING TO DO WITH YOU!!! I SHOULDN’T HAVE TRUSTED YOU! WHY DID I TRUST YOU? WHY SHOULD I TRUST ANYONE ANYMORE?!?” I ran from the boy with tears falling from my face as I did my best to escape the person who had hurt me. Who hurt me? It was him. It didn’t matter if it was on purpose. He destroyed me. I crossed the street, as I did I heard a loud crash behind me. I looked in horror at the semi-truck that had barely missed me. It barely missed me, but not the boy. His poppy shirt soaked with blood as the driver glared at the dead boy’s body.

“Serves you right you WEED!!!” I felt my anger desperate as I rushed towards the boy. I couldn’t reach him, the crowd had grown too big.

“I’M SORRY!!!! I’M SORRY!!!!” I screamed, but it was too late, far too late. The boy was dead, the police took me back to my parents who went back to pretending none of their kids had flowers. I kept my marigold locked in a chest around my neck keeping onlookers from seeing it. My sister would leave the house taking her own marigold with her as I sat alone in a gilded cage. Doing my best to fix the puzzle that was our family. One day, things changed. I don’t know what shifted but the “weeds” began to pop up everywhere. In the neighbors garden, in the sidewalk cracks, on the crosswalk. In the bars, at the steps of the capital. Everyone tried to kill the weeds, but it was no use. There were too many flowers. There were too many of us.

Eventually, flowers became a normal thing, more and more people would walk with flowers. In their hair, wrapped around their arms, sprouting from their hats and glasses. My parents would have to learn to accept flowers as they sprouted all throughout the hallways and windows. Somewhere along the way, they came to accept me, or at the very least they respect me a tad more.

I won’t lie, there were still attacks, there was still yelling, there were still people who hated flowers to their very core.

I don’t want to focus on those people anymore. They make me tired. For now, all I want to focus on is my own garden, where thousands of marigolds and dahlias are in bloom. Perhaps one day, all gardens, every single one will be able to look as colorful as mine.