SOUL

marys mother funeral

April 9th, 2007

The air was heavy with grief, but Leo couldn't help noticing how detached Marigold seemed. They were at the funeral, and while everyone around her was crying, Marigold stood still, her face expressionless. Her bright red hair was tied back in neat braids, and she was dressed in a simple black dress. She looked small among the crowd of mourners, but there was something about the way she carried herself—quiet, composed—that didn't match the weight of the day.

Leo's family had come to pay their respects. His father stood solemnly beside him, and his mother, Adamma, was comforting people who had come to the service. When it was their turn to approach Marigold and her father, Leo's chest tightened. Her father, a large man, was red-eyed, disheveled, and reeking of alcohol. His voice had cracked when he thanked everyone for attending, but his eyes were distant, empty. His grief was evident in every step he took, every word he spoke.

Marigold's father nodded blankly when Leo's parents offered their condolences, but it was Marigold who caught Adamma's attention. Her face remained calm, distant, as though the whole event was happening to someone else.

Leo wanted to say something, to comfort her, but the words wouldn't come. He could see she wasn't crying, wasn't visibly upset like the others. Her eyes were dry, focused on something far away.

After the service, as people gathered for the meal, Leo saw her slip away quietly, heading up to her room. His mother noticed too, her brow furrowed with concern. Adamma turned to Leo and gently squeezed his shoulder. "Stay here, Leo," she said softly. "I'm going to check on her."

Adamma climbed the stairs to Marigold's room, her footsteps soft against the wooden floor. She found Marigold sitting on her bed, staring out the window, her hands resting limply in her lap. The black dress she wore seemed too big for her, as if it had been chosen hastily and without care.

Adamma stepped inside, her heart aching at the sight. "Marigold?" she called gently, moving closer.

Marigold didn't turn to look at her, but her voice came out, quiet and hollow. "I knew it was going to happen."

Adamma paused, her chest tightening. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"

"I saw it," Marigold whispered, her eyes distant. "I had a vision."

The weight of those words hung in the air, heavy and painful. Adamma's heart broke for her. She stepped closer and sat beside Marigold, gently placing a hand on the girl's back.

"It's not your fault, Marigold," Adamma said softly, her voice filled with compassion. "You couldn't have stopped it."

Marigold shook her head, her voice cracking. "She knew it was gonna happen too" 

"what do you mean?"

"she visited me that night, she told me that she saw things too, that's why she drank so much to drown it all out"

"oh sweetie"

"she apologized for how she treated me, she said that she just wanted to silence the visions. That's why she moved us away from my grandma when I was little, because grandma sees things too and my mom was scared that she'd encourage me to lean into the visions"

"that must have been comforting to hear that you aren't alone, this is something the women in your family are blessed with"

"this doens't feel like a blessing" she responds "it feels like a curse, whats the point of seeing death if I can't prevent it?"

Adamma's eyes filled with tears, and she pulled Marigold into her arms, holding her tightly as the girl's small frame began to tremble. "Sometimes... things happen, and no matter how much we want to change them, we can't."

Marigold's breath hitched, and then the dam broke. She cried, the sobs wracking her body as she buried her face in Adamma's chest. For the first time that day, the emotion she had been holding in came pouring out, and she cried for everything—for the loss, for the fear, for the guilt she felt weighing her down.

Adamma rocked her gently, whispering soothing words as Marigold cried harder, her small hands clutching the fabric of Adamma's dress. She cried until her voice was hoarse, until she was too exhausted to cry anymore. Slowly, her sobs faded, her body growing limp in Adamma's arms.

When Marigold's breathing became steady, Adamma realized the girl had fallen asleep, utterly spent from the weight of her grief. Adamma carefully laid her down on the bed, pulling the blanket over her, and tucked her in. For a moment, she stood there, watching the way Marigold's face finally looked peaceful, her eyelids fluttering as she drifted deeper into sleep.

Adamma quietly left the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. 

Adamma caught a whiff of his breath—whiskey. She held back the concern she felt, knowing it wasn't the time to confront him about his drinking, but it made her uneasy. She watched him stumble into the kitchen, where other mourners were gathered, offering him their condolences.

Before he disappeared, Adamma gently touched his arm. "If you ever need someone to take care of Marigold," she said quietly, "please let me know. She's welcome at our house anytime."

Her father gave a brief, almost dismissive nod. "Thank you," he muttered, not looking her in the eye before he moved away.

Adamma stood there for a moment, her heart heavy with concern. She could feel the weight of what was happening, but more than anything, she felt that something was terribly wrong in that household. The air inside the home seemed oppressive, thick with sorrow and neglect.

As she left the house, her gaze lingered on the windows of Marigold's room. The light inside flickered faintly, casting long shadows over the walls. Adamma's stomach twisted with a sinking feeling.

There was so much pain in that house, so much that Marigold shouldn't have had to carry. And now, with her mother gone, Adamma feared what would become of the girl. She feared the long nights when Marigold would be left alone with the man who was now nothing more than a shell of himself.

With a heavy heart, Adamma made her way back to her family, already resolved that no matter what happened next, she would make sure Marigold knew she had a place where she was loved.