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"Hundreds of blooms wave in the cool autumnal air, for this yard was mystical. They were born from nothing, and nothing can separate them."

Every October, a series of curious events happen in the small town of Enchanted.

The verdant summer leaves transition to vibrant shades of gold, scarlet, and burnt umber. When the leaves have concluded their theatrical display, they pirouette to the ground, signally the end of lazy summer days and the impending slumber of autumn nights.

Autumn. Vegetables harvested for pickling, children don chunky cable knit sweaters and backpacks along with looks of despair as they shuffle to the edge of town and wait for the yellow school bus.

The moon swells above the town of Enchanted. Its mystery casting a mystical glow, while autumn breezes whisper the tales that only whispers can tell. Mrs. Montgomery, armed with a spray bottle and a hand shovel, takes to our shared yard and starts her yearly ritual of de-weeding. Except she's not weeding dandelions, thistles, or any other thorny nuisance that threatens to choke out and take over the grass and wildflowers that grow in reckless abandon. No, Mrs. Montgomery is pulling marigolds.

Now ever since I was a teenager, I'm twenty-three this month, Mrs. Montgomery has tried unsuccessfully to pull, pluck, banish and eliminate the growth of marigolds that scatter across our """""""yard. Every year, the same curious ritual, with the same intensity and the same vengeance. I once heard her tell those damn blasted marigolds just to wither and die, and I could have sworn that they whispered back to her, for she stopped dead in her tracks. Then she straightened her skirt, smoothed her messy hair and continued to walk into her house, only to return moments later with a bucket filled with what mom said was weed killer.

"Mrs. Montgomery never learns." Mom would say, shaking her head as she stood peeking through the curtains from the kitchen.

"Those marigolds have a purpose. It's best to leave them be and let them do their business."

I knew better than to try to unpack one of the many riddles that fell out of my mother's mouth. Mom knew things. While her messages were cryptic, they, too, held meaning. Each message revealed in its own time.

This October mom's statement uttered all those years ago was being revealed right before my eyes. As I stood peeking through the same window that mom had glanced through, I watched Mrs. Montgomery, an older version of herself, kneel amongst the marigolds for another year of plucking.

The town had its suspicion. You see, if you listened to the town gossip, you would have heard that Mrs. Montgomery drove Mr. Montgomery to leave her. Why? Over his unnatural love of marigolds. He had planted them all around the house, and when he ran out of space in the garden, rumour had it he kept them in mason jars, vases, bowls and even Mrs. Montgomery's best Sunday hat.

One Sunday, as Mrs. Montgomery sat hatless in pew number thirteen, the scowl on her face was palpable in pews twelve through one. Even the Pastor looked bothered.

Then, right in the middle of Ecclesiastes 3, at the part that said there's a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted, Mrs. Montgomery stood up and yelled, "Melvin, you love those damn flowers more than you love me. I'm going to kill every last one of them." And off she went.

Mr. Montgomery ran after dear old Mrs. Montgomery, and the next day Mr. Montgomery was gone. We all assumed he had finally left her and taken his precious marigolds with him since not one marigold was left standing.

A few weeks later, one by one, marigolds started to appear in the yard. Yellow ones and red ones, right there in the middle of the yard. On the coolest of Octobers, marigolds bloomed. That's when the gossip started.

I later found out that the marigold is the flower that wards off evil and protects its owner against ill will. One can only surmise that perhaps Mr. Montgomery had planted them to defend himself against Mrs. Montgomery. God only knows why but speculation–as small-town speculations spreads–was that Mr. Montgomery is buried right there in the backyard, and his revenge sprouts every year in the form of these beloved marigolds.

This October, as Mrs. Montgomery prodded and plucked at each Marigold, a curious thing happened. She started to sprout leaves, and then her face turned bright red. Her feet bore into the ground, like roots digging into the earth. Right before my eyes, Mrs. Montgomery turned into the very thing she despised–a Marigold.