Through the month of July, I thought the row of flowers that lined our driveway were a group of Marys that all shared the last name Gold. Brightly dressed in oranges, reds, and yellows, these Marys sweetened our driveway like the Halloween candy I had laid out in rows several months before. 

These Marys seemed so hearty. So forgiving. Not like Mrs. Muzik’s flowers a few houses down, that, while beautiful, didn’t want to be touched. I ran the Marys daily. Racing up the row in the driveway, then back the row in our lawn. If I bent over with one arm reaching low, I could run my hands through all the colors, greeting every Mary, my fingertips as new as each petal. I didn’t have the words for it then, but I felt it in my heart, this promise to be delicate, to be strong.

While she was out watering her lawn bouquet one evening, I told Mrs. Muzik about our Marys. She looked confused at first, then shook her head, “They’re marigolds,” she said. Isn’t that what I said, only faster? I know I said, each one is named Mary Gold. “No,” she said, and said it again — “marigolds.” I walked back up the gravel hill to our house. My mom was standing by the garage door, where our flowers began. “She’s trying to kill my Marys,” I said, bottom lip out. “Who did? What?” “Mrs. Muzik, she says they aren’t Marys at all, they are marigolds.” My mom smiled. “But ours are Marys, right?” “Yes,” she said, “Of course they are.” She locked my hand in hers and we ran down the row.

We were sitting at our local seafood restaurant, Touinou. The outdoor deck was lined in oranges, yellows and reds. A butterfly floated above them. I knew it was my mother. You can’t tell me differently. I was raised never to allow anyone to kill my Marys. We sat together, delicate and strong, in the glow of a French summer sun.