Lavender and Marigold

I remember her from a part of my youth that exists in a bubble, that I can only access when my memories fade between make-believe and real life. The only confirmation that she was real comes when I am visiting home. It's when I drive past the dusty road where her house still stands, albeit now in dark disarray. In my memory, the house was a glowing well-lit haven. The woman was ancient and looked on the verge of crumbling, like the fragile lavender cookies that she baked daily in her kitchen.

Those cookies were always somehow fresh from the oven when I would come bounding down the lane to her cottage. Her perceived weakness was a deception. Despite being bent at both her back and her neck, she was incredibly strong. At times I would arrive at her home and I would find her in the garden or the greenhouse carrying pots laden with flowers or pushing loads of dirt in a wheelbarrow. She was always overjoyed to see me. No matter what she was doing, she would wipe her hands down the front of her apron before cupping my face in her hands. She'd then coo and comment on my height or how strong and in good health I was. She would usher me to the table and set down the cups and plates of cookies. Then, start the kettle on the stove. When it was the right time of year she would go out and clip two fat marigolds from the garden and place them gently in the teacups before pouring the boiling water over them.

I would ask about her children and she would tell me that they all grew up and went away. She also had a niece in town who would come to visit but she never stayed too long. She would tell me stories about her children and all the trouble they got in with considerable joy in her voice. She would sit in her chaise and read me beautiful John Donne poems. I would sip my tea and get lost in all the flowery words that floated alongside the lazy pollen in the air. Sometimes she would take me out to the balmy greenhouse and show me around the tropical oasis that she magicked from nothing. There were beautiful broad banana leaves and even a pineapple plant; neither ever bore her fruit. Other times she would take me into the room past the kitchen where she kept hundreds of jars filled with seeds and other remnants from her garden. There she would burn bundles of dried-out mugwort to help me sleep better when I got home. Often on those nights, I would dream of being stuck in her greenhouse, unable to run because my feet were firmly planted in one of the great big pots.

I would look around her house and comment on the photos she kept on the mantle. I could always feel her eyes watching me as I paced. I asked about her husband pictured in flannel and she would wave off the question like a dusty moth. She would tell me he was gone and to never mind his absence. Much later after she sat in her room for so long that she turned to ashes, it was discovered that he wasn’t gone after all. He was found in the greenhouse face down in a shallow trench, mummified in flannel. But that would not happen for years to come. At the moment in time that I knew her, she was a gentle and kind woman. She was my friend with the lavender cookies and the hot cups of dizzying tea.