My Aunt Bren loved marigolds.
Every year, without fail, she would hand-till the soil of her flower beds, lovingly preparing the ground for their yearly bloom. There was never any question about what she would plant. As soon as the last cold snap passed—usually sometime after Easter—she would head out and come back with trays of bright yellow and orange marigolds.
And they stunk to high heaven.
“Why do you want to plant those old weeds?” I asked her once. “They smell terrible.”
She just smiled, brushing the dirt from her hands. “They’re cheery,” she said, tilting her head. “They make me happy.”
She’s gone now. I have a marigold tattoo in her honor, but this year, that didn’t feel like enough. So I planted them—for the first time in a long while. Bright yellow African marigolds, as bold as the sun.
I hope she can see them from heaven.
I hope they still make her smile.