By Crystal Rowe
@everythingissacred

After a few weeks of warm and sunny weather, my seven-year-old and I head to the local garden center in search of flowers to plant in our yard. We are roaming the annuals section when she picks up a potted marigold with lemon yellow flowers and says, “I need this for a soup recipe in my mud kitchen cookbook.” 

She has spent hours collecting ingredients for her dolls’ stew and was dismayed to discover last year’s marigolds didn’t survive winter. She is so adamant over needing this new plant I can’t bear to tell her no. 

“It looks like they’re on sale,” I say, a smile creeping onto my face. “Let’s get two.” Grinning at me, she chooses another plant with tangerine flowers. 

When we get home, I ask where she wants to plant her new flowers. She looks at the garden bed for a few moments before walking to the front steps. “Here. This is perfect.” She points to two spots at the base of the stairs on opposite sides of the walkway. “We’ll see them when we walk in every day.” Amazed at her gardening eye, I nod my head and watch as she digs a hole with the tiny shovel we bought for her several years ago.

“What else goes in your Marigold Stew?” I ask, while I help her loosen the plant’s roots and put it in the hole. 

“Some grass I think. Water, of course. I’ll have to look in my book.” We plant the yellow marigold on the opposite side of the stairs, and she runs off to play.

A few days later, I’m at the cafe table in my yard nursing an iced coffee and enjoying a few moments of solitude while my kids play. A honey bee lands on the bright yellow marigold and I saunter over to get a closer look. Squatting on the edge of the walkway, I begin to pluck the dead buds. My grandma used to say if you want robust marigold plants, you must pick off their dying blooms. Deadheading, she called it, helps the plant not waste energy on dying. Instead, the plant concentrates on the new buds beginning to grow.

I call my daughter over from where she is playing. “I want to show you something.” 

She runs over and watches me pinch a dead bud between my thumb and forefinger. I squeeze gently, and the bud pops off.

“Mama!” she cries; “You killed it!” 

Shaking my head gently, I assure her it’s okay. “You have to pull the dead blooms off the plant if you want new flowers to grow.”

“But if you pinch them all off, there won’t be any flowers for my stew!” She’s appalled that I am tearing away the very thing she needs. 

“You don’t pinch them all off, just the dead ones. Like this.” I show her once more before asking her to try. “I wonder if you can use the dead ones in your stew?”

Carefully, she puts her tiny fingers at the base of a shriveling bud and pulls gently. She tilts her head to one side and says, “Yeah, but I need live flowers too. That’s what makes it sweet.” I remind her to leave some flowers on the plant so she’ll always have ingredients for whatever she wants to make next. “I know, Mama,” she says, rolling her eyes. Collecting her flowers in a small metal pot, she prances away.

I have no idea if she’ll remember this gardening tip as the summer goes by. My grandma’s advice about deadheading seems innate to me now, but it was many years before it took root in my heart. 

***

I was twenty-eight years old, dressed in a knee-length black pencil skirt, starched white button down, my favorite black heels, and a smile to mask my fear. I stood to take the witness stand, directly facing my soon-to-be ex-husband and his parents. No one sat on my side of the courtroom; no one in my family could take the day off. 

I was on my own.

“Do you wish to terminate your marriage?” the judge asked, looking at me with steely eyes. I thought over the last five years: the constant arguments, our refusal to see eye to eye, his denial that anything was wrong even when I told him I was struggling.

I swallowed a lump in my throat. I wanted to tell the judge how unhappy I was. How belittled he always made me feel. But none of that mattered in a no-fault divorce. Especially when there are no kids. The only thing she needed to know was if I wanted to end the marriage. 

“Yes,” I replied, squeezing my hands tightly in my lap, trying to stay calm. Stay strong, I thought; don’t collapse. You are doing the right thing.

After she signed the papers and dismissed us, I hastily left the courthouse, refusing to look at my ex or his family on my way out the door. I called my mom the moment I got in the car. The sound of her voice released the dam, and I began to sob uncontrollably. 

“Breathe,” she said. “Take a deep breath.”

I dislodged the words stuck in my throat, spitting them out as fast as I could—one rapid-fire sentence of panic after another.

When I finally stopped, I heard my mom take an audible breath before replying: “Go for a walk. The fresh air will do you good.”

I sat in my car for a few minutes to gain control over my tears before driving to the local park. Slamming the car door, the scent of marigolds hit me before I saw them lining the path. I bent over and took a closer look. Spent blossoms littered the plants. I pinched at the base of several withering blooms and squeezed the dead buds in my palms. Taking a deep breath, I caught a whiff of the marigold’s musky scent—like green apples mixed with dead leaves. 

It was an end and a beginning in one deep breath.

***

One late summer day, I walk out the front door and down the steps to where the marigolds are planted. Based on the plants’ current size, my daughter’s been doing a great job with her deadheading. Their dark green foliage is covered with orange and yellow pom poms.

Moving my hand through the bushy leaves, I find an old, worn bud. I tweak the base of the dying bloom and wonder how many pots of Marigold Stew my daughter has made over the last several months. Finding several more wilted buds hidden within the lush greenery, I pluck the ones she’s missed. Clenching a handful of dead buds in my hands, I walk over to the cafe table and take a seat. I crunch the buds and catch a whiff of its familiar smell—faintly resembling that of a skunk. Dozens of seeds emerge from underneath the dry papery skin. From this one dead bud, hundreds of new flowers could grow. 

My daughter comes running from the backyard just as I am contemplating what the garden might look like if we plant these seeds I’ve discovered. “Want a snack, Mommy?” she asks, grinning from ear to ear.

I look up at her in wonder. “What are you making today?”

“Marigold Stew!” She hands me a small yellow bowl and an old wooden spoon. I look closely, trying to decipher what’s inside. A few dead marigold buds, several pieces of clover, a leaf of lemon balm, and a bright orange flower right in the center. Pretending to take a big bite, I tell her it’s delicious before showing her the seeds I uncovered. Her eyes light up inquisitively. “Are these the seeds?” Nodding my head, I ask if she’d like to help me plant them on the big open space in the backyard. Eagerly holding out her hand, she agrees.

Sixteen years have passed since my solo walk in the woods, but the memory returns every time I see a marigold in bloom. I didn’t know then that divorce was the end of only one branch of my life. My marriage, like an unpruned marigold, had been dying for quite some time, but I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to bud anew. I had no idea I’d get married again and was convinced I would never have kids. There was no way for me to know that I would one day fall in love with a man who would make me happy—that one day marriage and motherhood would leave me feeling fulfilled.  

I look at the seeds in my daughter’s hand. “Go get your shovel,” I say. “I’ll finish my stew and meet you on the hill.” 

Guest essay written by Crystal Rowe. Crystal is a former real estate attorney born and raised in Georgia, who now lives in a small coastal town north of Boston. She adores the beach and would spend every waking moment there if she could. Crystal home educates her two daughters and spends whatever free time she can find writing, cooking or reading. Her poetry has appeared in The Elpis Pages, Tweetspeak Poetry, and The Order of Us and her essays can be found at Coffee + Crumbs, Literary Mama, and on her Substack, Soul Munchies. Learn more on her website.