Elizabeth's Marigolds

Today’s the day. I arose like any other morning, slipped out of bed with a much needed stretch. I grabbed my slippers and headed downstairs. Then made my way to the kitchen and started the coffee. The aroma itself, was enough to make my grogginess fade. When it was done, I poured a cup and opened the window. It was a crisp morning with a cool breeze. As I sipped my coffee I studied the landscape. Most of the view consisted of large pines and tall grass, birds chirped and in the distance, a faint sound of a woodpecker was chipping away. The garden was a sea of orange and yellow. It was her favorite flower, the marigold. With petals, looking as fragile as life itself and an aroma that was more of an odor to me than a fragrance. But they were perfect in her eyes. No other flower could compare. Watching these flowers bloom brought me back. Back to a year ago.

Elizabeth, my beautiful five year old, helped me plant those Marigolds hoping they would come back every year for her. She never wanted any other flower to be planted in her garden except the marigold, and I kept her wish. I haven’t planted anything since. Elizabeth was a beautiful child, with eyes of brown and chin length hair that was a golden blonde and had so many curls, she resembled Shirley Temple. Despite missing one of her front teeth, her smile was so bright and charismatic that it could cheer up even the saddest person. She was small for her age but had a personality larger than life.

When her illness came, she spent most of her time in the garden singing to her flowers. They brought out the best in her and her smile beamed when she was in her garden. I would watch from the kitchen window trying my best not to cry, even though it killed me inside. Knowing that my child was sick and there wasn’t anything I could do to help make her better. The night her hair started falling out I went to my room and sobbed. She didn’t need to see me like that. I needed to be strong for her, but she was truly the strong one. The following day she asked if I would shave off her curls, and I told her, "since I am shaving your head, you get to shave mine.” And we did just that. Matching bald heads. Later on we made our way to her garden and made flower crowns and I remember thinking she looked just like an Angel. Even though she was pale now, with dark circles under her eyes and becoming more frail with each passing day, she was still as beautiful as before the disease. Her positive attitude kept us both going.

As she got sicker, she had to spend all her time in the hospital, but all she wanted was her flowers. She asked me to bring them to her. I would stay with her every night and leave in the early morning to go get her a single flower from her garden, then I would stay the rest of the day with her. She would sing to her flowers as if she was in her garden, but now it sounded more melancholic.

As Elizabeth’s garden depleted so did her health, but she continued to smile each day I would arrive with her flowers. This went on for weeks until she told me she was ready to go home. She was tired of fighting this and was ready to go see her father. Elizabeth was wise beyond her years. A year ago today, I picked the last flower, dressed all in black and headed for the funeral. My sweet, sweet child was now home. She finally looked at peace. I placed the last marigold on her casket as she was laid to rest. Those flowers meant the world to her. There are no words that can be given to a grieving mother in this time. Everyone wants to help, but no words cold make it better. Every day I would go out to her empty garden hoping the flowers would come back. It was no longer a sea of orange and yellow, but just brown soil and green weeds. The garden did not help me to heal. I tried to remain strong but I was all alone now.

I left the window, turned away and wiped a tear from my eye. Has it only been a year? It feels like a lifetime since my Elizabeth left this world. I had to get ready. I finished my coffee, set my cup in the sink and headed back upstairs to get dressed. I decided to wear a light blue flannel shirt and some jeans. This was the first time since the spring thaw that I would go see her. I knew she must be missing her flowers. I headed out to her garden and picked a good size bushel for her grave. When I got to the cemetery, I started walking down the path to her plaque. There was something unusual in the distance. As I got closer, I couldn’t believe my eyes, a sea of orange and yellow! Just surrounding her marker were dozens of Marigolds sprouting out of the ground every which way. I dropped to the ground sobbing, but this time, they were tears of joy. Knowing that Elizabeth’s heart was so full and nurturing to her flowers that they continue to grow for her, even after death. I placed my Marigolds on her marker and sang to her like she sang to her flowers. Her flowers were the world to her and she was the world to me.