My mom always told me that flowers have meanings. My earliest memories with her were at the flower nursery that she worked at. Since my dad was never a part of my life, my mom had to find a way to take care of me and work. Madra, the owner of the nursery, was a kind old lady who was fine with me staying at the nursery while my mom worked. During her breaks, my mom would scoop me up into her arms and plant a big kiss on my forehead. I would smell the familiar scent of dirt and flowers lingering on her clothes, a scent that hurts my head when I smell it today. She would carry me over to different flowers and tell me their meanings. That’s how I learned about the flower I was named after.

“Darling, guess what flower this is,” my mother asked, kneeling down next to me and gesturing towards a golden orange flower with intricately ruffled petals. 

“Uh… a daisy?” I replied.

My mother gently shook her head. “It’s a marigold. Sound familiar?”

“Oh! My name—Mari!”

“Yes! I named you Mari because when you were born, you smiled. You were like the sun, all bright and happy. I planned to name you Lavender, because I found lavender growing outside of my apartment that day I found out I was pregnant with you. But when I saw how much of a ball of energy you were, I realized that Lavender did not suit you, Marigold did.”  

  I smiled from ear to ear. “Mom, what does my name mean?”

“Well, it has a couple of meanings, but it symbolizes positivity and happiness. It also represents the sun, fiery and strong.” She squeezed my tiny hand.

As time passed, I spent less time at the nursery. But still, I tried to visit almost every day. The nursery wasn’t far from my middle school, so I usually walked there after school. Walking through my small town that was surrounded by nature, I would often come across a variety of flowers, which I carefully plucked to give to my mother. A common find was red chrysanthemums. The chrysanthemums were bright red and could be spotted from a mile away. After selecting the smallest blossom and carefully cradling the small flower in my palm, I skipped to the nursery, excited to see my mom’s reaction. I remember quietly opening the door and spotting her kneeling in front of the plants, wearing her usual green apron with her brown hair up in a messy bun. My mom was the most beautiful when she was working in the nursery. She was always happy there, even when the work was tedious—something I always admired about her. 

I tiptoed behind her and tickled her ear with the chrysanthemum, effectively ruining her concentration. She yelped and whipped around, “Mari, you scared the living hell out of me!”

I laughed hysterically. “You should see your face right now!”  

“You drive me crazy, sunshine. Oh, is that for me?” She smiled as she pointed at the flower.

“Who else would I give it to?” I mumbled, suddenly embarrassed. I felt my face get hot. 

She took it from my hand and inspected it. “A chrysanthemum. Oh, and a red one at that. I’ve totally forgotten what it means. Could you remind me?

“It means I love you.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you,” she teased.

“IT MEANS I LOVE YOU!” I yelled, my face turning as red as the flower.

“I LOVE YOU TOO!” My mom shouted. Laughing, she tickled my stomach, which brought me down to the floor with her. I broke out into bursts of giggles as she hugged me.

“Mari,” she said.

I looked up at my mom, her eyes emerald green with a hazel ring around the iris. The longer I looked into her eyes, the more I could see a lush forest stretching for miles, illuminated by a setting sun. Her feather lashes cast a soft shadow across her cheeks, and I could not help but get lost in her eyes. The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled.

“I love you so much, and every minute—no, every second we spend together is unforgettable.”

I admired my mom. She had a delicate but firm presence that drew everyone in. Many people felt so at ease around her that they shared things with her that they’d never told anyone else. Even if someone told her something bizarre, she was always understanding and never judgemental. Kindness radiated off of her, so much so, you could almost see it. However, she never let anybody take advantage of her kindness. This is one of the reasons Madra, the owner of the nursery, loved her so much. 

Madra was always like a mother/grandmotherly figure to my mom and me. She helped us in a lot of ways, sometimes picking me up from school and buying me food, and she was lenient with my mother’s work hours. We even celebrated Christmas with her several times. When I started high school, however, her health began to decline, and she died at the end of my freshman year. It was hard on both of us, because Madra was like family, but my mom took her death the hardest. When she died, Madra passed down the nursery to my mother, addressing her in her will as “Letha, my daughter.”

Although this affected my mother deeply, she did not let it break her. She returned to work and became a beacon of light and positivity. No matter how many problems she had, she still listened to those in pain and lent a shoulder for them to cry on. Seeing how strong she was even after Madra’s death made me love her that much more. I truly strived to be just like her.

As I grew older, visits to the nursery became more infrequent. College was just around the corner, and I had much to prepare for. My mom and I did not spend as much time together as we used to, but we still communicated in special ways. When I would get home from school, there was always a flower and a handwritten note on my desk. The flower was usually a yarrow, my mom’s favorite flower to give me. It meant “everlasting love.” In return, I would sneak blue salvia into her purse before I left for school. 

Before I knew it, I was accepted to a college far from my hometown. My mom was ecstatic when she heard the news and brought me the most enormous bouquet I had ever seen. We spent a lot of time together packing and spending our last days in each other’s company. When the day came that I had to say my goodbyes, my heart ached. We were standing at the edge of the security check at the airport, tightly holding onto each other's hands.

“Mari, I am so so proud of how far you have come.” my mother said. Her eyes began to well up with tears, shimmering like two crystals. They were filled with vulnerability and sorrow but also hope and pride. 

“Don’t cry, mom. You’re going to make me cry now.” I felt my chest concave and began to feel tears roll down my cheeks, like rain streaking down a window. Fighting the lump in my throat, I said, “Don’t forget to call, ok? Last thing before I go.” I reached into my bag, pulled out a singular resin-preserved forget-me-not flower, and placed it in her hand. 

“This is hilarious,” my mom said, wiping her tears. “I got you a pink carnation necklace, which means ‘I will never forget you’. You’re my only daughter and the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’ll call you every day.”