Quiet as it’s kept, there were no marigolds in the fall of
1941. We thought, at the time, that it was because Pecola
was having her father’s baby that the marigolds did not
grow. A little examination and much less melancholy would
have proved to us that our seeds were not the only ones that
did not sprout; nobody’s did. Not even the gardens fronting
the lake showed marigolds that year. But so deeply concerned were we with the health and safe delivery of Pecola’s
baby we could think of nothing but our own magic: if we
planted the seeds, and said the right words over them, they
would blossom, and everything would be all right.
It was a long time before my sister and I admitted to
ourselves that no green was going to spring from our seeds.
Once we knew, our guilt was relieved only by fights and
mutual accusations about who was to blame. For years I
thought my sister was right: it was my fault. I had planted
them too far down in the earth. It never occurred to either
of us that the earth itself might have been unyielding. Wehad dropped our seeds in our own little plot of black dirt
just as Pecola’s father had dropped his seeds in his own plot
of black dirt. Our innocence and faith were no more productive than his lust or despair. What is clear now is that of
all of that hope, fear, lust, love, and grief, nothing remains
but Pecola and the unyielding earth. Cholly Breedlove is
dead; our innocence too. The seeds shriveled and died; her
baby too.
There is really nothing more to say—except why. But
sincewhy is difficult to handle, one must take refuge inhow.
Quiet as it’s kept, there were no marigolds in the fall of
1941. We thought, at the time, that it was because Pecola
was having her father’s baby that the marigolds did not
grow. A little examination and much less melancholy would
have proved to us that our seeds were not the only ones that
did not sprout; nobody’s did. Not even the gardens fronting
the lake showed marigolds that year. But so deeply concerned were we with the health and safe delivery of Pecola’s
baby we could think of nothing but our own magic: if we
planted the seeds, and said the right words over them, they
would blossom, and everything would be all right.
It was a long time before my sister and I admitted to
ourselves that no green was going to spring from our seeds.
Once we knew, our guilt was relieved only by fights and
mutual accusations about who was to blame. For years I
thought my sister was right: it was my fault. I had planted
them too far down in the earth. It never occurred to either
of us that the earth itself might have been unyielding. Wehad dropped our seeds in our own little plot of black dirt
just as Pecola’s father had dropped his seeds in his own plot
of black dirt. Our innocence and faith were no more productive than his lust or despair. What is clear now is that of
all of that hope, fear, lust, love, and grief, nothing remains
but Pecola and the unyielding earth. Cholly Breedlove is
dead; our innocence too. The seeds shriveled and died; her
baby too.
There is really nothing more to say—except why. But
sincewhy is difficult to handle, one must take refuge inhow.
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