To Be Seen

"Do you have someone to visit you?" Her brow is gently furrowed with concern, as she knows how challenging the isolation of repeated stay at home orders can be. Widowed far too young by suicide, her heart simply cannot bear the thought of others struggling. Not like he did and not like she has.

Words like "strong", "inspiring" and "resilient", have long since become paired with a feeling of abandonment and being left to fend for oneself, to the point of almost eliciting a twitch each time they are heard or read. Most people disappear quickly after the initial influx of company and donated meals that line the freezer far longer than loved ones line the walls and seats of her home. But hearing these words from someone who has felt the same sense - of truly being alone - instills solemn comfort and understanding.

He has no one and he has felt this for longer than anyone should. To feel it at all is longer than anyone should and, although she has felt it and sometimes still does, she wishes no one else would. So she offers all she can - her presence and care.

She arrives on the first day and despite having some small grasp of how difficult things are for him right now, she can't help but recognise the sunshine beaming out of him when he greets her, embraces her warmly and leads her across the threshold. One of the first things he does is take her to his garden, carefully cultivated in some places, left to flourish of its own accord in others. She learns that when he feels as though he is drowning under the weight of people's demands on his time, energy and expertise, he laments and wishes people would just talk to him about gardening instead. He proudly shows her the marigolds that occupy an entire section of the courtyard, their golden faces perfectly mimicking the sunshine not only from above, but that so warmly welcomed her only minutes ago.

"There are five children in my family and, when each of us was born, a tree or bush, or flowers were planted for us - mine was marigolds. Which is ironic, because bees love them, so they were always covered in bees, but I'm allergic to bees." He is the kind of person who completely engages with someone while conversing and, as she feels silly sharing this anecdote even as it tumbles out of her, his eyes never leave hers despite the way she bashfully avoids eye contact when she speaks. He tells her he grew those marigolds from seed and they have always flourished, and the two of them return inside.

As the day fades into evening, then into the small hours of morning, their unflinching conversation, filled with the kind of accidental sharing and vulnerability that comes effortlessly and gives cause to believe in soulmate connections, both romantic and platonic, blossoms from verbal support to physical connection. The simple, easy kind of touch that feels safe and caring, and fills the lungs with air for the first time in weeks, months or years. And it has been years for both of them.

They spend more days like this - sharing deeply, laughing, eating, touching hands, smiling smiles that radiate from within rather than beginning and ending with the mouth. Each time she arrives, he has placed freshly cut marigolds on the table in a small vase, which evolves into the addition of marigolds on the bedside table, too. "Because you're marigolds," he says simply when he sees her notice them. Eventually, he will say, "There are fresh marigolds on your side of the bed," and although the years of her loss somehow seem both short and expansive, she feels something inside her that she wasn't sure would return to her again in this life.

As she once again absorbs their effortless existence of pure warmth and beauty, she understands that the marigolds are not just marigolds - they are a mirror. A reflection of her. Of him. Of them.