Kshama Bhyravabhotla

Haven

It had been a month since she had moved when she saw the marigold. She was at the market, scrambling to find milk to make yogurt to serve with dinner. Her ears had been tuned to snatches of The Bangles playing overhead, interspersed with news reports that the new president- she had seen Ronald Reagan on the television before but apparently it was a new man now- was being sworn in, when she stumbled across the array of potted plants. They were a burst of color in the pristine white aisles and fluorescent lights of the supermarket. She remembered how they grew with wild abandon in her parents' garden, their vibrant orange blossoms peeking out from between bitter neem leaves.