Embers of Marigold at Sunset

Outside my window, the sun was shining; it looked like it would be another beautiful summer day. It was the summer that never ends… or never got started. I wasn’t sure which. Two weeks to stop the spread turned into I couldn’t even remember what day it was anymore. Mom wouldn’t be awake for a couple more hours. The treatments for her sickness were really wearing down her body, and she’d just had one yesterday. Everybody was saying she would be okay, but it was scary.

I was a high school sophomore, not ready to be a man yet—I wasn’t supposed to be scared. Life was supposed to be all about videogames, sports, and girls… not about pandemics and cancer. Part of me wanted to go back to sleep or just lay in bed staring at the ceiling and drowning in melancholy, but I knew that would just make me feel worse, and mom always notices my moodiness.

Dad… I wished he was around more. I understood—since mom wasn’t working, he had to make up the slack, and thankfully running your own business makes that easier than most jobs. Still though, it sucked to see him so rarely. I looked at my Xbox, but none of my games really appealed to me. Besides, most of my friends sleep in later than I do, so there was no point in playing anything till later. That left one option: I decided to take a walk to my favorite brooding spot. I grabbed my backpack and headed for the front door. Outside, the sun was so bright it was momentarily blinding. Mrs. Smith waved from across the street.

“Hi, Ethan!”

“Morning, Mrs. Smith.” She taught both me and my older sister sixth grade English. Her classes always brightened my day. She and our other neighbors were the only redeeming parts of this slice of suburbia. Mrs. Smith and my mom both loved gardening. They could talk for hours about how to protect their vegetable gardens from pests or how to make sure flowers bloom as long as possible.

Up until a year ago I didn’t care, but now I had to admit it was wearing off on me. I even had a little notebook with pictures from my mom to help me identify common flowers and other plants. I took that book with me whenever I went out, and I usually managed to bring back something pretty for my mom. Sometimes, if I thought it would go with her garden, I’d transplant the flower. I put my headphones on and queued up some electronic music without any words. It always helped me clear my mind.

I walked towards my spot: an abandoned park with a stream running through it. House after house passed through my peripheral vision. The floor plans were all the same, the front porches, the two little patches of manicured grass. The only difference was the color, and unless the homeowner had initiative, that pattern repeated itself: robin blue, light yellow, white, red, robin blue… It all just seemed so soul-crushing to me. Finally, I get to the empty lots. The entire area was slated for development, but then ’07-’08 happened and whoever owned these lots still hadn’t sold them all.

The park was just beyond them. It was probably meant to go with the development, but just like the lots, it had been abandoned. That suited me just fine—it was my little slice of wilderness. I couldn’t wait till I could drive and then I could go to the real – or at least more real – wilderness of the Rockies. For now though, this was my escape from a world that was on fire.

I made my way through the tall grass to my spot beside the stream. I ducked underneath the branches of some cottonwood trees, then sat down on a flat rock that butted up against a huge tree trunk and almost overhung the stream. It’s like something out of a fantasy book. I lost myself to the day out there: music, reading, even a couple quick Netflix show episodes I had downloaded.

I could stay out here forever except that it was well past lunchtime, and I was hungry. I packed up and headed back. I headed across the parking lot that had never even had parking lines painted. That’s when I saw it: a clump of orange flowers growing though a crack in the pavement. I pulled out my plant books and flipped through it. Ah, they were marigolds—French Marigolds or Tagetes patula. Supposedly, they keep pests away from vegetable gardens, and this clump was especially vibrant. Even if my mom didn’t plant them, they would bring her joy in a vase.

I fished in my backpack for my trowel and a small, burnt orange pot. I got tired of going back to the house every time I saw a plant my mom would like, so now I just carry them with me all the time. Water, fruit snacks, power bank, charging cord, little plant book, big fantasy book, headphones (if I wasn’t wearing them), trowel, pot, and a rain jacket. That was my packing list—it made me feel like one of those crazies with Go-Bags staged by the door. I carefully situated the flowers in my backpack so the pot wouldn’t flip over and continued the trek home.

Mom was delighted and insisted we plant them right away. Personally, I would’ve rather eaten first, but when something puts a smile on my mother’s face I don’t argue. That night, dad came home early with pizza and we sat around the firepit and watched the sunset. The firepit is technically against the rules, but none of our neighbors care—it’s just one small act of rebellion against the asinine rules that still apply even when you own the house. I leaned back in my chair and took in the sight. The embers streamed up into the purple sky and mixed with the first stars that were starting to appear. The orange of the fire blended with the marigold flowers directly behind it.

Maybe my little slice of world wasn’t so bad after all.