A Pot of Marigolds

Ok, it's official: the marigolds my son A.J. gave me for Mother's Day are dead. When he gave me the pot back in May, it originally had four bright green plants blooming with orange-yellow flowers. Since our house is fairly shaded, I decided to put the plant on the back porch to give it some sun, then forgot to water it for a week. By the time I remembered, there was only one stubborn green-brown stalk left growing at the edge of the pot; the rest had shriveled into crispy brown wires. Boy, did I feel guilty.

After a bit of nursing, though, the remaining sprig developed two large flower buds and two smaller ones. I was very encouraged by this and decided to transplant the plant into the center of the pot so its roots would have room to grow. I'm not sure whether or not that move shocked it, the plant needed more water than I gave it, or it needed something else. In any case, the leaves on the remaining plant started to dry out even though I regularly dumped water on it, and finally all the buds dropped off. Now I just have a dry brown stick in a pot of dirt. How depressing.

I've killed plenty of plants before -- I joke that I have a black thumb since I've managed to kill everything from jade plants to cacti -- but I'm especially bothered by the loss of this plant because it was a Mother's Day gift. I think A.J. grew these flowers from seed at school; I seem to remember a note from his teacher about a marigold experiment. Now it's dead, and I feel really guilty. The pot he painted is still ok, though. I wonder if he would be ok with my filling it with a new bunch of flowers?