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Marigold

Kym Davies

By Kym Martine BirdPublished 4 years ago 3 min read

Marigold

Written by Kym Davies

As I walked out into the blinding light, I felt a moment of peace.

Beauty is all I have, and the sun was a glorious reflection of the dark hole in my chest.

I looked down to the garden bed, with the grass glistering in the enduring frost.

The Marigolds are reaching out for the sun, splendid in their reflection of the morning. Orange and pink and blue, with grey clouds and piercing white light. The gruelling darkness of the night vanquished in a spray of colour and warmth.

‘I will not kill myself today’, I thought. The Marigolds would not like it. Would they grieve my passing or only be indifferent? I think they would live on, in their vivid sturdiness, searching for the light.

I will plant hundreds of trees today, which I will never sit under. And this is a glorious thing.

I get into my filthy car, with my filthy clothes and mind, and drive forward, east towards the sunrise.

I finally arrive after a mind melting drive down the freeway. Angry men tweekers in double bs, 4wd utes and commodores, terrorise my travels. Karens and Sharon’s late for work. Doing their makeup in the rear view mirror, raging along in their giant cars. I am angry and ironic behind the wheel, and overly verbose. Merge bitch!

The sunrise melts into a dark sky. My car is small, as small as I.

“Hi Kym, how are you?” He asks with a forced smile and an uncertain heart. The insecurity is palpable. The contrived hand gestures thrive wile barely hidden hatred comes to the surface. I have equal parts empathy and annoyance. I struggle to be accommodating and professional, but my thoughts linger on the negative. Why must my anxiety present as arsehole? I guess I just don’t like being continually patronised by a foetus.

I struggle to put on the protection I need. It takes too much time. I am already exhausted. I forget what I need and have to return again and again to my filthy car.

I persist.

As I kneel down again and again, one plant after another, it is perfect and tedious.

A great reflection of all things equally bad and great.

Hard work. I dig hole after hole. Thousands of holes for trees and shrubs and rushes and grasses, I will never sit near or under.

They are not for me, but for others. And this is the beauty of the work. White noise of the machine silence’s my mind, my hand cramps along with my shoulder.

Again and again he tells me how to do simple things. He.

Unqualified advice and information. ‘Oh shut the Fuck up’ I murmur in my horror. I try to be nice. But how do you be nice to someone whom takes tools, that you clearly know how to use, out of your hand, and tells the same story over and over again, endlessly, while never asking another person or plant how they are, what they are, and never ever stops for a moment to listen? Is this just another reflection?

Please let me finish a sentence!

It’s a lesson in letting others speak. Listening. Like the plants and the tress and the flowers. They listen.

When the afternoon rain comes I am ready. It rains and rains, the wind blows.

I trudge home with a joyous heart and a freezing body, confused by the anxiety, absurdity and ambivalence.

Beauty is all I crave. I try, endlessly. I am so stubborn and vulnerable, like the trees and the flowers.

The Marigold is average, but helps the other plants survive and grow.

I come home to my garden, my Marigolds.

.

Kym Martine Davies

Noble Park NTH.VIC. 3174.

0421552040

[email protected]

short story

About the Creator

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