If you Squint at the Marigolds

It was the end of Cynthia and Johnny’s 30th wedding anniversary celebration. Vases of marigold flowers illuminated the living room, they were Cynthias’ favourite. If you squinted, you could see Kilmts’ lovers kissing. That’s what Cynthia loved about flowers, she told me, “If you squint at the flowers, you’ll always see love.” Johnny and I walked down the hall to the little spare room. The one that always had soft music playing in the background with the green rocking chair and the big wedding photo. I am like a daughter to him and he is like a grandfather to me, so he talks to me when he needs to. He closed the door and settled on the rocking chair. He pointed for me to sit on the sofa next to him. Not a word. Something filled the room. Sadness or regret. I couldn’t tell. I broke the silence. “What is happening Johnny, whatever it is, it looks like it’s killing you. You’re- you’re not dying are you?”

His head fell into his hands and he murmured “I’m 81, Spark, I’m not going to be here for much longer.” He looked at me again and I could hear him better this time, although he started sobbing. “Before I went to Vietnam I wrote for Cynthia. I wrote and wrote for her, because I was not sure I would ever come back.” His gaze was blankly fixed on the wall in front of him. His cry worsened and it looked so painful. I held his arm. “I wrote about how much I loved her. I wrote about her beauty, about how she made me feel. I didn’t know whether I was going to come back alive to marry her. I was going to give all of them to her when I left.” “What happened to them, Johnny, where are they?”, I rushed, I knew he had them somewhere. “In the brown box on the coffee table, the key to it is in my pocket, bring it here, please.” The crying softened. I tried to give it to him but he waved his hands and gave me the key. I sat down and looked at him seriously, “You want me to open it, Johnny?”

The redness was returning to his cheeks,“Before I left for Vietnam, my father found all of the poems and letters I wrote for Cynthia…. and he tore, he tore all 23 of them up, Spark. He was a harsh, harsh man. He didn’t believe men should write. Spark, I don’t know why, but he loathed it. Said I was a pitiful specimen of a man and hit me if he ever caught me writing for her.” I was resting on his shoulder now as he spoke and he was whispering it now, the box and key were on the floor. The room was not tense anymore, it felt like it was sleeping.

“Only one little poem survived, Spark. I was petrified of giving it to her. She has never seen it. I can hear my father yell at me every time I try to take it out. Spark, open the box. Read it for me and if you think it’s good, It’s time she sees it.” I felt like I was unearthing history. I nodded with a gentle smile and picked up the box, unlocked it. I held a folded piece of paper in my hands. Light brown, heavy with words, with a rip at the edge. I opened it. This is what was written:

For Cynthia, my gunmetal rose petal.

Your figure haunted me again in the silent morning.

I dreamt of you smiling at me, shining in all of your glory.

You’re books clutched to your chest. I envy how near they are to your heart.

As I woke, I remembered how I crave to be in your arms and feel your consuming embrace.

In my heart, a garden of affection grew from the sweet desire I have for you.

Blue chiffon flowers in honour of your eyes and apricot roses honouring your lips.

The curves of the trees embodying your hips.

You are fierce, my love. You are soulful. When you walk, you walk with the breeze, when you laugh you put me at ease.

When you speak, my mind goes quiet and I am mesmerised by how you carry your spirit in your eyes.

My pillar of strength, my guiding light. You are capable of incredible things.

I am a candle and you are a match. I am the sea and you are the moon.

I am weak with desire when I am with you.

Lightning strike, you are a gunmetal rose. You are strength and silky gentleness in the shape of a woman.

You are the most brilliant design, the most beautiful rhyme, armed with the most gorgeous mind.

God has blessed me with the priceless gift of your love and time.

When I squint at the marigolds, I see you.

I love you, Cynthia.

Love, Johnny

That night, Johnny passed away. I gave the poem to Cynthia. She was his marigold.