Jessica Davis

The Marigold Lover

It was spring 1987, just a week or so after Miss Mariane had died at 74 years old while watching Jeopardy in her home. The marigolds in her front yard sat idly, confused at why they had stopped hearing the compliments of passersby who loved Mariane and her flowers. They missed the company of the neighborhood kids, who always trotted into Mariane’s yard to see her, hoping that today her generous snack would be warm sugar cookies rather than carrot sticks, but politely thanking her for whatever she had to offer. One particular child was entranced by the flowers; she pet their petals delicately like they were the ears of a small and fragile animal, cooing to them in a manner more special than she offered even to her baby doll, which she always had in tow. But now, the yard was quiet. The child’s soft and loving whispers, the music of the neighbors chattering, Mariane herself humming contently, all gone. The marigolds, like the rest of the neighborhood, grieved in silence.