a marigold for the stranger
photo by sophie mcleod
a marigold for the stranger
fourth-year shannon moran
I once heard of a man who worked as an electrician in asbestos-ridden structures. Upon reaching retirement, he escaped pollution and poverty to construct a cabin in the woods. He sketched a series of blueprints on notebook paper, each adorned with the word: MARIGOLDS. He scattered the seeds across his domain of damp earth and gently tended to his golden meadow. Between paving stones sprouted blooms, bold and tall, releasing their aroma to the summer-infused breeze. Petals of divine silk thread shone with humble brilliance. But his beloved flowers withered with the frost and, months before my birth, the man succumbed to mesothelioma. Although I have no memories with this man, the echoes of that flower remain with me, as a root immune to the winter chill. The fiery blossoms are regarded as a symbol of sunshine, optimism, and luck. However, according to my superstitious grandmother, marigolds attract the souls of the dead.
In honor of the gardener and his masterpiece, I used my skin as a canvas, racing through the bitter chill of January into a neon-lit tattoo parlor. Cigarette smoke wafted from the waiting room where seasoned patrons glared with suspicion. I stiffly reclined into a well-worn leather chair as a burly man barreled towards me. Fumes of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant followed him like a smog. "Just a minimalistic marigold, please," I stammered like a child. My eyes darted to the needles lying idle on the tray. Without a word, the man laced his instrument through thick fingers. Stale sweat streamed from my forehead.
I frantically shuffled through a meditation playlist. Angelic harps harmonized with whispers of inner peace. But nothing could drown out the incessant alarm that rang inside me. Permanent. Permanent. Permanent. The jet-black ink breached my ankle. For two agonizing hours, he picked and prodded at my innocent flesh. Yet, the discomfort dissipated once the artist revealed my battle scar. My memorial for the soul of a stranger. I tend to my marigold every night, polishing the petals with argan oil to prevent fading.