Mari

Depression was a word not spoken aloud in my home, but it was a well-known and welcome visitor. When my wife died a few months ago, I thought Depression had become a permanent resident. On our daily walks, my wife and I used to find joy in the rustle of leaves and the sound of children playing, but now they all are just blatant reminders that she is gone. I still walked through the park every day, though. Some traditions die hard I suppose.

It’s the littlest things that bug you once they’re gone. A coffee cup that no longer gets dirtied after breakfast, the jarring silence of the house at night. But even my perception of the world changed. I noticed a few weeks after her death that the park had become too green. The trees were green, the grass was green, even the water was green. Every leaf, every branch, every insect seemed to be shoving their eternal life in my face. Reminding me that they live on while she is gone.

Because of this, I often found myself spending days on the park bench counting the blades of grass in front of me. I stared at people that wandered around me, oblivious to how lucky they were to ignore the cacophony of color that surrounded them.

I heard a dog bark sixteen times as it ran across the pathway. I counted. Children ran around each other. The leaves rustled around me. I questioned whether to walk back home or to spend a few more hours with the company of strangers. I felt their eyes as they watched me. Never giving a second thought to the old man silently watching them.

I stood up to continue my walk. My bones ached in disagreement. Eventually, you get used to the pain of being alive. I scuffed the heels of my shoes across the concrete as I kicked a stone in front of me. I passed by family after family. Couple after couple. Green bush after green bush. It was like this every day. Never changed. Always the same.

Pointless.

Finding another bench, I sat down again to rest. The muddy green lake sparkled in the light in front of me. Slimy algae clung to the rocks, and an earthy stench hung in the air. I jumped when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Here you go, Mister,” a young girl looked up at me. She had pigtails that barely touched her shoulders and a wide grin that bared her four missing front teeth. I huffed before turning away.

“My mom says it’s rude to ignore a gift from someone,” she said, placing a hand on her hips. I turned back to see her outstretched hand adorning a single delicate flower.

“It’s a marigold,” she said proudly. I plucked it out of her hand and observed it. I was unfamiliar with flowers, but this one was unlike anything I had ever seen. I tried to count the petals but lost track after thirty.

“Do you like it?” she asked. I gave her a small smile in response as I pressed my lips together tightly. “It has the same name as me,” she continued and I had to suppress a laugh, parents must be hippies.

She kicked a stone out of the pathway and looked down, “We see you here sometimes,” she continued, “you’re always alone. Don’t you have a family?”

“Not anymore,” I said.

“That’s okay,” she shrugged with childlike optimism. “My dad passed away a few months ago.” Her face suddenly lit up, “But in school, they taught us that marigolds are the flower of the dead-- You can also eat them! Did you know that?”

“No, I did not,” I said plainly. The little girl’s eyes sparkled with excitement and wonder, clearly ignoring my attempts to end the conversation.

She clambered up onto the bench next to me. “Do you want to see the other marigolds?”

Though the thought intrigued me, I shook my head no. If I stayed much longer, I would miss my lunch. It was a date I intended to keep. Every day at 12:30 I made myself a sandwich and shared it with my wife.

The girl pointed off to the side, “There are a whole bunch of them across the way there. I want to go see them, but mom says I can’t go alone.”

“Then why don’t you ask your mom to take you?”

“I want you to take me. Please, Mister?” Her brown eyes looked up at me. I turned to see a frantic young woman walking towards us. Clearly the mother of this clingy child.

“Mari!” she said exhausted, “what have I told you about strangers?”

“But mom,” she whined, “he isn’t a stranger. I want to go see the marigolds.” She crossed her arms across her chest and sunk into the bench next to me.

“I’m so sorry if she has bothered you. Come on, sweetie. We’re going home now.” She reached her hand for her daughter’s, but before she got up, Marigold reached out to me.

“See you later, Mister. Take care of my flower for me, okay?” She walked away hand in hand with her mother. I kept watch as they disappeared over the path into the lush green park. I looked down at the delicate flower still between my fingers then headed back in the opposite direction.

For the first time, I felt life in the endless greenery that surrounded me. Each tree possessing no less than a million shades of green. Every leaf, every blade of grass filled with a myriad of colors in the sun. Even the birds seemed a little happier as they serenaded me on my walk home.

That night, I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water. I gently placed the flower into the glass, careful not to bend the stem more than it already was. It had lost a few petals from the walk home, and I doubted it would live past the week. Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. Every time I tried, I remembered the wonder in the little girl’s face. So instead, I kept my promise to her and watched over it. The flower kept me company through my dinner and nightly watching of the news. In the morning, I talked to it while sipping on my coffee. Before leaving for my daily stroll, I set it down next to the picture of Cecelia I kept on the windowsill.

“Keep watch over this for me while I’m gone,” I kissed the frame, “I’ll see you soon.”

The park was nearly empty when I arrived and the sky was covered in a blanket of gray. Among the fast emptiness, a bright speck caught my attention. I walked over to the bench and saw a bright orange flower that was taped onto a torn piece of paper.

My fingers traced the picture of two stick figures smiling. An orange flower, much like the one now decorating my windowsill, was held out between them. In a child’s handwriting it said: “Dear Mister, I’m sorry for bothering you yesterday. I got you another flower because it makes me happy, and I hope it makes you happy. Love, Marigold.”

I released the flower from the piece of paper and placed it in my shirt pocket. And just like every other day, I walked up the hill with my sandwich.

Kneeling in the grass I placed my hand on the stone in front of me. Cecelia Burke was etched into the front of it.

“Hi sweetheart,” I breathed. The cold stone felt familiar under my fingers. I traced the words as I had a hundred times before. I unwrapped my sandwich and took a bite.

“I met someone yesterday who I think you’d like,” I started. “She gave me a gift, but I think you better hold onto this one.” I gently placed the flower on top of her name.

I took another bite of my sandwich and smiled.