Marigolds

Marigolds from Miss Lottie's Point of View

Exposition: On a sweltering afternoon in rural Maryland during the Great Depression, I, Miss Lottie, stand in my small, modest yard, surrounded by the vibrant splashes of color emerging from my marigold patch. The bright yellows and oranges stand out starkly against the dusty browns of my surroundings. I tend to the flowers with care, feeling a deep connection to their beauty in a world that often feels so barren and unforgiving. As I kneel in the dirt, I find a bittersweet solace within these blooms; they remind me of joy, hope, and resilience amidst hardship.

Yet, today there is a weight upon my heart. I sense the children of the neighborhood—Lizabeth and her friends—gathering nearby, their laughter laced with mischief. The air crackles with tension. I feel a mix of unease and concern. How can I protect my beloved marigolds from their destructive whims? I have long sought to cultivate beauty, but the looming threat of their playfulness feels like a storm gathering on the horizon.

Conflict: The primary problem unsettling my spirit is the feeling of helplessness against the looming threat my flowers face. I am determined to create a sanctuary, yet I find myself at odds with the wildness of youth. The conflict is not just between me and the children — it is also within myself, as I grapple with my desire to be respected and valued alongside the grandeur of the blooms I nurture. Today, the weight of societal neglect looms larger than life, as an elderly woman in a struggling community like mine finds it difficult to maintain her dignity amid the chaos.

As I dig my hands into the earth, I am burdened not only by the fear of losing my flowers but also by the knowledge that my dreams and efforts may go unnoticed by the very people I seek to impact.

Rising Action: As the children draw closer, their laughter turns to taunts, and I realize they are eyeing my marigolds, plotting, perhaps, their next mischief. I see the glint of rebellion in Lizabeth’s eyes, and as she leads her friends toward my precious flowers, a sense of dread washes over me. My heart races, and I clutch my gardening trowel, torn between the instinct to protect my sanctuary and the recognition that they are simply children, seeking joy and connection in a world that has little to offer them.

“Oh, Lord,” I think, a mix of apprehension and pity flooding through me. I wonder if they see the flowers as mere objects for their amusement, unaware of the passion and intention that went into their growth. My concerns swirl like the dust in the air: What if they destroy my marigolds? What does it matter if they do? When will my labor bear fruit beyond these blossoms?

Climax: The moment arrives when I can no longer quietly observe their antics. As Lizabeth lunges forward, arms outstretched, for the marigolds, something snaps within me. “Stop!” I cry out, my voice cracking. In that heartbeat, I am confronted with the reality of my existence. The marigolds, symbols of my hopes, hold power—they can inspire beauty, but only if they are respected. I realize that for too long I have hoped for others to appreciate them; now, I must show them the worth of my creation, just as their laughter speaks to the beauty of their youth.

In my shout, I gain clarity: the conflict is not solely about my flowers; it is about the connection I share with these children. Their actions can either destroy my hopes or inspire change; it is a choice. Lizabeth seems to pause, her eyes meeting mine, and in that moment, I see a crack of understanding flicker within her.

Falling Action: As they step back, their playful energy morphing into hesitant curiosity, I take a breath, feeling the heat of anger ebb away, replaced with a flicker of hope. They could choose to engage rather than destroy — this realization feels like a gentle rain after a long drought. I invite them closer, a tentative peace blooming between us, urging them to participate in the beauty I’ve sown, instead of tearing it apart.

I teach them about the marigolds, sharing the story of how I nurtured these blossoms and their significance to me. Lizabeth listens intently, her guarded demeanor softening, and I see the faintest smile cross her lips. My marigolds have become a bridge between us, a reminder of beauty that can thrive, even amidst struggle.

My heart swells with pride; my flowers endure, and I witness the beginnings of a kernel of understanding thriving in the hearts of these children. The bitterness that once brewed is now a bloom of hope, intertwining our stories in the garden of life.

In the aftermath, I feel a newfound sense of connection and purpose. As the sun pours its golden light over my marigolds, I know that my labor has not been in vain; beauty can flourish even in the most unexpected of places.