Golden Rain

“Do you know who planted this garden?” Grandpa asked me the morning of my tenth birthday as we walked through the variety of vegetables on the eastern side of the garden.

“Was it you?” I asked as I plucked a juicy tomato from one of the vines and put it in my basket of assorted veggies. The soil was cool on my bare feet as I walked through it, a stark difference from the hot, humid air.

“It was your grandma.” Grandpa replied, slowly bending over to snap a pea pod off one of the vines, “follow me.”

He carefully stepped over the rows of carrots and made his way past the raspberry bushes. I plucked a few berries from the bush and popped them in my mouth. My lips puckered as the sour, red juice flooded my tastebuds. I swallowed it as quickly as I could.

My grandpa laughed, “not quite ripe yet, are they?” he inquired, and we continued to walk.

“Not yet.” I replied as I followed him, “Where are we going papa?” I asked.

“You’ll see.” He took a left, and walked out of the back gate. I jogged to keep up with him. He led me down an overgrown trail, and across the fallen tree that created a bridge over the brook below where I used to catch snails with my mom when I was a toddler. We walked along that winding trail for five or so minutes, until we came to a small clearing.

The birch trees spread their branches over the clearing, casting a little shade, but still allowing the sun’s rays to peek through their canopy. And below that, the soil was dark, rich, and sprouted out thousands upon thousands of little golden flowers. In the center of it all was a small marble headstone, that read:

Marianna Dolchetti

January 13, 1939- November 14, 2003

Loving mother, sister and wife

“Papa,” I started, “is this grandma’s grave?”

My grandpa smiled, his big, italian nose was red, the way it got when he was trying not to cry.

“It is.” he said, “Beautiful, just like she was.”

“What are these flowers?” I asked, setting my basket down and kneeling to pluck one from its stem.

“Marigolds.” Grandpa said, “She planted them herself.”

I looked up at him, “Why these? of all the flowers she could have chosen?”

My grandpa wiped a tear from his eye, “I’ll tell you why, but only if you listen.” he walked over to her grave, brushed some of the dust from the headstone, and sat down beside it. I gave a nod and walked over to sit next to him.

“Mari, your grandmother, was a firecracker of a woman when I first met her.” he said, “In fact, I couldn’t stand her.”

I laughed, “Then why’d you get married?”

“Shhh,” Grandpa said, “I said to listen, save the questions for afterwards.”

I quieted down and he continued his story.

“The first day I met her, it was pouring down rain, and I was walking out to my car from my job I had in Brooklyn. I noticed the marigolds in the pots outside of my work had been picked. And as I went to unlock my car I saw a girl running down the street barefoot, with a crown of marigolds on her head. She was in a yellow dress, and she was heading in the direction of the beach. I threw my stuff in my car and drove to the beach to hopefully catch her there and confront her about stealing the flowers in the front of the building. Not much time went by before I saw her run out onto the empty pier. I got out of my car, opened my umbrella, and approached her.

“Let me tell you, she was no doubt the most stunning woman I had ever laid eyes on. Everything about her, from how her dress clung to her body, to how her face tilted up to the sky as she danced in the rain. But I didn’t care how beautiful she was then, I was an angry young man who was unhappy with the life I was living, and so I took it out on her. I told her that she had no right picking the flowers from the flowerpots in front of my workplace. And she told me I had no right in telling her how to live her life. She ran to the edge of the pier, climbed up on the railing, and for a moment, I thought she would jump. I yelled at her again, telling her that she owed my employers new flowers, and she said it would be simple because she was the one who planted them in the first place.

“She got down from the railing and asked me my name, I told her what it was, and she said she would replace them for me. I was satisfied with my answer, so I turned and walked back to my car, and she hopped back on the railing and just sat there, alone.” Grandpa paused and smiled.

“Grandma sounds like a weirdo.” I said.

“She was.” Grandpa replied, “Because the very next day there was an envelope on my desk. I assumed it had to do with work business, and so I opened it, and inside was a marigold flower with a note attached to it that said, ‘Here's the first week’s payment.’ I didn’t find it funny that time, and so I just put the marigold back, crumpled the envelope and threw it away. And I did it again when she sent it the next week, and again the next week. But eventually, I found myself looking forward to finding those envelopes on my desk. I got excited to see what snarky thing she would say next. And I began to keep all of the flowers in a mug on my desk until they died. Occasionally I would catch her dropping one off at the front desk, but I always hid from her so she didn’t know I was finding any sort of enjoyment in what she was doing.

“One day I was looking at my notes from one of my meetings and I physically ran into her. I knocked her over, and my papers went flying out of my hands. I grumbled angrily about it, until I realized who I had run into. She was sitting on the floor laughing. And for the first time in what seemed like ages, even though I was annoyed, she made me smile. I reached out a hand to help her up, but she ignored it and stood on her own. She reached out and handed me the envelope for the week and I happily took it from her. My heart was trying to beat out of my chest and it took me a second to realize how nervous this woman made me, but I found the courage to ask her if she wanted to go out to dinner or coffee sometime. But she just smiled and left me standing there. --”

“Hold on.” I said, “Grandma didn’t even answer you.”

“She did.” Grandpa replied, “The next week I received another marigold, and the note attached said, ‘coffee sounds nice, six thirty tomorrow morning at Devocion?’.”

“Did you go?” I asked, leaning in close.

“Of course I did, and I don’t regret it either.” Grandpa answered, “She was the most intelligent person I had ever spoken to, or ever known for that matter. She didn’t care about what the weather was doing or who the president should be. She started asking me about my thoughts on certain scientific theories, she asked the questions that made me think, and when I couldn’t answer them, she gave me her thoughts on it. I was fascinated by her mind, her beauty, and her freedom.

“After that date, she continued to send me marigolds, and we went on more dates to dinner, and the movies, or fishing and a picnic. She was everything I could ever want. Then one day, after we had been going out for almost a year, she sent me a marigold and the note said, ‘if you don’t marry you before I die, I won’t ever talk to you in heaven.’ It made me laugh, but I already had the plan for how I was going to propose.

“I had found a new job, bought some land in Tennessee, and I took her down to show her around the plot. Then I led her here, to this very spot, where some wild flowers grew. I got down on one knee and asked her to be my wife. She said yes, and we built a beautiful life together.” Grandpa finished his story, and a tear rolled down his cheek and got lost in his beard.

“Papa,” I said, laying my hand on his shoulder, “That’s a love story I hope to have one day.”

My grandpa wiped the tears from his eyes, and plucked a marigold from its stem, “you will have it,” he said, as he tucked the flower behind my ear, “The greatest love stories run in the Dolchetti family. Just ask your parents about theirs. it’s almost better than mine.” He stood up slowly, and reached out his hand to help me up. I took it and picked up my basket.

“Grandma would be so proud of you grandpa.” I said, taking his hand as we began to walk home, “look at how you’ve kept her alive.” I gestured towards the marigolds and then to the garden.

My grandpa laughed softly, “I guess you’re right.” he said, kissing me on the forehead gently, “Let’s go make some lunch before your mom gets here to take you home.”

Rain clouds began to form as I walked hand in hand with my papa, with the beautiful golden flower, the sweet memory of my grandmother, tucked neatly behind my ear. I thought about the way my grandmother danced in the rain with the crown of marigolds wrapped around her head, and I knew that the storm had come from her.