Marigolds In Winter

The old wooden bridge, weathered with many years of use, creaked
underneath his slight weight. It had been their place, ever since the
first time they had met. Her parents had bought the farm two miles down
the road from where he lived, back in the summer of 1908.

He remembered every last detail of their first meeting, and he smiled
within himself. She was all of 10, and himself almost a man at 12. Her
pigtailed hair was redder than colorfast Georgia clay after a hard
spring rain. Her skin was fair, but spritzed with a generous amount of
freckles, reminding him of the cinnamon specks in his mama's apple pies
that had won blue ribbons each year at the county fair. The very
thought made his mouth water and his stomach grumble. He had run out of
the house at daybreak, before his mama had finished fixing
breakfast.

The marigolds sprang riotous along the river's edge in various shades
of yellowgold, crimsoned red, and marmalade orange. The Flint River ran
slow and lazy, as was its custom in the summer months, unless a heavy
afternoon shower decided to make its presence known. He had brought his
cane pole and a box of worms for bait, but the catfish and bream
weren't in a mood to bite, so he had taken to skimming stones.

She didn't mince words, " I bet I can skip a stone just as good as
you,
if not better! "

" Think not, " he retorted.

She picked up a smooth rock, flat enough so that it would skip at least
five times, maybe more. She flicked her wrist and it went sailing..1,
2, 3, 4, 5, 6..seven times it skimmed the water's surface, then sank to
join it's brother stones on the rocky bottom.

His turn came and he selected a sure winner. With practiced precision
he let it go. It clunked against a boulder in midstream, then made a
swandive into the gently swirling liquid. She quickly commented, " That
only counts as one skip to my way of thinking! "

Being bested by a skinny girl, young enough to be his sister was not on
any kind of agenda he had set for himself. He picked up his belongings,
and began to walk away. What she said next stopped him in his tracks. "
You shoulda asked me what the loser wins. " She held up a brown paper
bag in front of his nose. Sweet smells of ham and biscuits, and fresh
peach cobbler hit him like a ton of bricks. They sat underneath the
full-leaved weeping willow tree, eating their first meal together. From
that moment on they were inseparable. They spent the summers swimming,
fishing, and walking..talking and dreaming.

The years came and went with hurried haste. Early one autumn eve in
1914, he brought her a small bouquet of her favorite flowers, the last
of the marigolds he had found by the riverbank. On bended knee in her
parents' parlor, he took her hand in his. " Please do me the honor of
becoming my wife. " He had reached the age of 18, and war was rampant
in Europe. Newspapers and radio talked of nothing else. " I went and
signed on as a medic in the army. My train leaves for Charleston in 1
week. "

They were married on Saturday night, with good friends and many
relatives present. The reception was fine and dandy and dried marigolds
graced the tables. Everyone had brought potluck. Smoked hams, fried
chicken, potato salad, boiled corn, green beans, squash, apple and
pumpkin pies, cocoanut and pecan cakes, iced tea and coffee. It was a
wonderful wedding meal and they danced to fiddles, banjos, and
guitars.

They spent their honeymoon night in his bedroom. His mother had gussied
up things, adding a feminine touch. They went to the community church
on Sunday, the only service they would attend as husband and wife. They
had four blissful days together. Their parting was filled with
tenderness, sweet kisses, and sorrowful goodbyes. He never saw her
alive again. While he fought valiantly for his country, saving many
lives in the process, she died of the deadly influenza outbreak which
swept south from the Canadian Border to the Gulf Of Mexico.

He walked across the bridge to the small country church, while
spiraling flakes of snow were uplifted by the blowing winter winds. He
brushed away the leaves that had gathered around her headstone. The
marigolds that were placed in the blue-white vase had long since faded,
but he knew his offering should please her spirit.

He had come out each and everyday in the bright summer months, bringing
with him his artist's sketchbook, and oils with which to paint.
Marigolds had come to life beneath his fingers, and the sun would
always shine for her. " My Love, I've brought a bit of summertime to
warm you, though it won't be long until this world is snowbound in
sugar-coated confection. " He removed his wedding ring and his Medal Of
Honor, positioning them on the crucifix atop her gravestone, then
carefully propped the gilt-framed picture next to her name, Mary
Gold.