the ones left behind (Emily Boyle

The ones left behind

By Emily Boyle ('23)

It was a wonder she didn’t hurt herself, delicate as she was; the clouds tantrumed pathetically, and the concrete beneath her feet slickened. Bustling bodies from all directions surrounded the pitiful women, worn with age and aptly discarded. Her greasy hair, once tightly tucked behind shining ears, now sat rebelliously, untidied by the rain racing for pavement. It’s true the woman held an umbrella, clutched desperately within her wrinkled hand; yet its metal skeleton proved fractured, and its cheap flesh profusely tattered. More rain fell onto her circular glasses, newly clouded with fog. The cold nipped the poor woman without mercy, yet her deliberate steps did not abate.

Squeaking in the puddled sidewalk, her husband's old running shoes whined, almost in requiem for their gradual decay. Water invaded each sole and clung stubbornly to each sock, heavying her steps with an unforgiving moisture. But it was no matter; she had arrived. The woman mustered up all the strength she could find trapped within those brittle bones, and pushed open the door wide. Rusty bells jingled, revealing an expanse of flowers from ceiling to floor. It smelled of dirt and old books, the secrets of life slowly dying under groggy lamp lights. She smiled to herself, digging up an old peppermint from the depths of her pocket. Popping the sweet into her mouth, she eyed the familiar selection of life splayed before her. In one corner sat the irises, the roses, the daffodils, the lilies. Turn one's head and feast upon the sight of sunflowers, chrysanthemums, tulips, and marigolds.

Ah, marigolds! A name more perfect surely exists not! Those tiny sunsets, who squeal in delight as they spring forth from their potted home. Who burn heartaches into grins and transform lonely hands into maternal tokens. A searing passion, matched with gentle warmth, consumed the beautiful thing before her. They were Tom’s favorite, so they were her favorite. They always would be. Picking up those little suns, the old woman walked to the cashier’s desk. She smiled with her new plant and extended a shriveled arm, cash clumped inside small hands. A tiny ring shined, and a tear ran down the marigold's face.