A Sea of Marigold

A sea of yellows and oranges sway in the breeze as I follow the only path cutting through it, the rhythmic crunching of gravel under my measured steps a staccato counterpoint to the soft whisper of the marigold bulbs rustling together. I can clearly hear the sound of children playing in the distance, their shouts and laughter washing over me bittersweet as I approach a woman in a paisley sundress seated upon a wooden bench along the path.

Her hair is a deep auburn, still fiery enough to almost disguise the few silver strands, and it stands out like a beacon among all the yellow and green. Small pale hands rest lightly in her lap, smooth and almost translucent, not often touched by the sun. The green of her eyes, though distorted with tears, shine in stark contrast to the redness of anguish.

She smiles slightly, with visible effort, as I approach and sit down next to her, leaving enough room between us for the package that I had been holding. A simple block, maybe a hand span and a half on a side, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Her left hand moves to rest upon it as I release it, and I place my right hand, also smooth and pale, atop hers.

Her hand is cool in mine, as it always has been, and I wonder if she is amused by the heat coming from mine. Always so similar and so different. The auburn shot through with silver of my beard matches her long locks, and I know that when I look in her eyes she sees the same green in mine, though not amplified by tears. Not yet. She has always accepted and released her emotions publicly where I have held them and tortured over them alone. We understand each other.

Nothing is said. Though we have not been in one another’s presence in many, many years, there has been contact. Letter, media, text, voice, there are many ways to stay connected in spite of time and distance, and we have used them all. I would say, and I would hope that she would agree, that we are close. Nothing needs to be said.

After a few moments she takes the package into her own lap and unties it, slowly, reluctantly, gently pulling back the flaps of the wrapping. Of course the wind is at our backs, she has made sure of it thoughtfully as she arrived before me, just as I have made certain the sky is clear and shining sapphire, for to do this on an overcast or stormy day would do the task a disservice. Within the wrapping is a silvered container, it’s cover held down by a simple latch.

Fully unwrapping it she stands, and moves to the edge of the path, her dress brushing up against the yellow bulbs as the tips of her shoes nearly touch the edge of the grass. I rise to meet her, and as we face each other, I reach out to hold the container as well. I nod as she reaches for the latch which she releases as we both raise up and empty the container, just as a gust of wind comes upon us, taking up the silvery motes from within the urn and pulling them to spin and dance and play, among the air, among the fields of yellow and orange. Closing the urn and taking my sister’s arm, we walk down the path and continue our separate journeys even as our mother’s journey ends, twirling, among the marigolds.