Flowers

Friday, September 1st, 2017

They're orange. Not a sickly shade, not too dark, not too bright, but just right. The way the sunshine lighted upon them was just... perfect. Usually Jex is the one to stop walking and I wait for her, but today it was the other way around. Kneeling down, I leaned in for a closer look. They were just as beautiful up close as far away, and the sheer number of them made my heart take a leap of joy within me to see such a sight. They were marigolds. If you've never seen them, take a walk down Spotswood Avenue in Moscow and you'll see a huge patch of them right in front by the road where some blessed gardener deigned to plant them for all to enjoy. Marigolds are among my favorite type of flower, and if you want to know what the other ones are to top my list you'll have to wait until I chance upon a big patch of them, become so awe-inspired that I write about it, and then you happen upon my writing and find out. Or you could just ask me, that works too. But marigolds. They're the best, they smell so sweet and perfect, they're not too tall and haughty like the peacock of the flower world the sunflower, and they won't ever betray you like the rose and give you a prick on the finger. They're low and humble, graceful yet sturdy, strong but not proud. If I were turned into a flower by some dark magic and I happened to be a marigold, I could rest content, knowing I was in a good place. The next time you see one, take some time to look at it, learn from it. The marigold is a marvelous flower.