The Scarcity of Marigolds

Originally published in Spanish in Crisopeya.

It was November, but the marigolds were scarce. The phosphorescent glow that was once abundant in the fields of the town had been replaced by yellowish grass. Now, the only place where one could gather marigolds was in the mountain next to the town.

The peasant woman climbed the mountain, her basket hanging from her arm and her hands firmly holding the grass. She was old: it was a miracle that her legs had not rotted away years ago. However, time left its mark on her; her knees caused her profound pain with each step she gave, and all her being trembled with the effort of climbing the mountain. 

She didn’t know why she did it. She could easily send her daughter, María, who was still young, agile, and strong, in her place. She knew that the few women in town, which formed her main clientele, would let her retire without resentment. Despite this, the peasant woman refused to retire, and would diligently climb up the mountain every day. It didn’t bother her. She supposed she liked the security she felt in her routine, as well as the memories the marigolds brought.

She said the names of the dead in a low voice. Marisa, Ana, Regina, Isabel, Antonia, Antonia, Antonia…

***

“Antonia!” she cried out.

Antonia turned to see her sister, the young peasant girl, running towards her. Her basket was too big for her, and hung from her arm in a ridiculous yet adorable way. Antonia smiled. 

“Come here,” she said, throwing her own basket to the ground. She took her little sister in her arms and hugged her strongly, spinning her around while she did so. The young peasant girl laughed. 

“Dad told me to accompany you to pick up marigolds,” the young peasant girl said. 

“That’s alright,” Antonia answered. “Come, and we’ll climb up the mountain together. Come on, take my hand.”

The young peasant girl obeyed her sister, and the two began their ascent. The mountain glowed with a phosphorescent orange that illuminated the town when couples went out to dance and drink until dawn. The young peasant girl loved these parties: the mariachis that came out to play, the mole and the tacos, the smell of flowers floating in the air. They were magic times that she had begun to miss, now that the women had stopped coming out at night.

“Through here,” Antonia suddenly exclaimed. “Come see these flowers. They’re huge.”

The young peasant girl came closer, her legs grazing various marigolds, until she got to a small field. There she saw the biggest flowers she had seen in her life: they shone like diamonds and had petals that seemed to be made out of silk. The young peasant girl sighed like someone in love.

“They’re nice, aren’t they?” Antonia said with a smile. “Come on, let’s go gather them. Give me your basket.” 

“No. I’ll gather them,” the young peasant girl said, and immediately bent down to gather the flowers. She was already used to looking out for spines and for any insect, for which she gathered the flowers with ease. She took the base of the marigold with one hand and, in one fluid movement, ripped the head off the flower and put it softly in her basket. Little by little, the base of her basket turned from brown to orange. 

She turned to see her sister. Antonia worked with diligence, completely absorbed in her work. She murmured something while sweetly gathering the marigolds, her light hands moving with elegance between the grass and the basket. 

“What are you doing?” the young peasant girl asked.

“I’m saying the names of the dead,” Antonia answered. “That way you remember those that aren’t here anymore, and dedicate a flower to them.”

“And why don’t you dedicate them to the living?”

“Because you only give flowers to someone else when you’re in love.”

The young peasant girl agreed and delicately grabbed a flower.

“Here,” she told Antonia. “So that you can give it to Rodrigo.”

“Rodrigo isn’t my boyfriend,” Antonia said quickly, blushing. 

“Oh,” the young peasant girl said. “Then I’ll give it to Pepe.”

“Who is Pepe?”

“He’s my boyfriend,” the young peasant girl answered, and Antonia laughed.

“Aren’t you a little young to have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Oh, alright. And are you going to get married?”

“Yes, we’ll have a daughter and a dog.”

“And what will they be called?”

“The dog will be called Firulais. The girl I don’t know.”

“She should be called María,” Antonia answered. “I’ve always liked that name.”

***

After lots of searching, the peasant woman finally found a field with a few marigolds. Their sad petals fell under the sun. The peasant woman came closer and, putting her basket on the ground, knelt down. 

“Lucía,” she murmured. “María Sofía, Valentina, Alejandra, Mariana, Manuela, Antonia…”

She ripped a flower out of the ground. She wondered why Antonia had had to go out that late that night. 

“Guadalupe, Michelle, Aitana, Luna, Renata, Alexa…”

She yanked another flower out of the ground. She wondered if Antonia’s life had been yanked just as easily. 

“Margarita, Josefina, Valeria, Elizabeth, Martha…”

She ripped out another flower. It was so easy, she was so surprised with how easy it was.

“Natalia, Ximena, Teresa, Rosario…”

She ripped out another flower. They told her that when they had found her, she had looked like a little withered flower, squashed. 

“Amalia… Itzel… Nayeli…”

She ripped out another flower. And how easy it had been for Rodrigo to get away with it. 

“Yolanda… Rosa María… Laura…”

She ripped out another flower. He hadn’t even been criminally prosecuted. 

“Xóchitl… Sofía…”

She didn’t remember the other names anymore. She paused, tears falling out of her eyes. She cried for Antonia, for the forgotten ones, for those that had never been found.

She cried, and her tears fell over the decapitated stems.

After a long day the peasant woman came down from the mountain. She had to think about what she was going to have for dinner, and at what prices she was going to sell the flowers to the women in town. She didn’t want to charge them too much, as she knew they couldn’t pay her too much. But she needed to eat. 

She didn’t have much time to think about it, because at the foot of the mountain, she found a group of women waiting for her. They had rosaries in their hands and tears in their eyes. One of the women approached the peasant woman and, taking her by the shoulder, told her:

“I’m so sorry. It’s your daughter… it’s María…”

The basket fell to the ground. 

The peasant woman fell silent. There was nothing to say. Defeated, she picked up the basket and climbed up the mountain again to look for more marigolds. 

She didn’t know if there would be enough.