Tangy shades of tangerine were threaded by hand and left swinging above the Temple doorway. Across the grey waters of the Ganges, the saffron dust of petals dipped beneath the ripples and through the sloshy wet backstreets, crushed flowers lay with the memory of the early morning prayers.

I was bought from a market and planted one day in the soil. I grew from this earth, travelled and bloomed in many places. My versatility has given me witness from the birth of a child to the demise of a old age. As time passes, I am there to mark the celebration of life. Decorating homes or floating along a river, I have been in the hands of the rich and the poor.

I have been bought and sold in bulk at early morning markets while others hold my blush in their hand to choose just one. Sometimes I am plucked apart slowly and used as rain; a shower of happiness against the smiles of a perfect moment. But when my use is over, I am left scattered under a tree, my petals bent, to be consumed by animals or the same earth that I arose from.

I am the Marigold.

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