"Marigolds"
... pain peaks. It is easy to sympathize with Lizabeth and her travail: Most of her family has moved away to brighter prospects in suburbia. Her father is unemployed. Her mother works full-time. She is sad and alone. One night, as she hears the remorse and despair of her father crying over his plight, Lizabeth’s rage is driven to madness. How unfortunate she cannot speak to her parents about the suffering, that she cannot find a handful of pebbles to throw across a dried-up pond or dead twigs to kick across the ball field. Her first thought are the marigolds. But does she hate them? Of course not. However, her inability to face the reality of her life and pain makes them the perfect target for her revenge. The irony is that she loves the flowers deeply. What she hates is what they represent – the reality of hope and promise in a world that, for all she can see, appears cruel and mocking. In one way, she is the criminal who kills the love of his life because the woman has refused his advances. Her destruction of them reveals that, in truth, she doesn’t hate the flowers at all. In fact, it’s her deep love and awe of them that leads her to destroy them. Lizabeth loves the flowers. They beckon her like an enchanted gingerbread house deep in a thicket. What she hates is what the flowers represent: the reality of hope and promise in a world that, for all she can see, denies that. The tears of despair that fall from her father’s eyes one cold, black night drip mockery at the innocent blooms. Suddenly, the flowers have no logical place in her world. Their comfort is now a threat. Miss Lottie is still waiting for something in the story. The reader can’t be sure, but one thing is true: rage bears no good fruit. If Miss Lottie is waiting to reap some sort of harvest from her actions, it surely won’t be pleasant. Yes, we reap what we sow, One has to wonder what would have happened in Lizabeth had embraced Miss Lottie from the start, and offered the old woman assistance in turning the soil and pulling the wee...