Growing Marigolds

Step One – Sow the seed right into the ground

This proves to be easy this time around

Step Two - Barely anything you need bring

Wait until the ground is warm in the spring

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Step Three - Water when the soil becomes dry

This annual will out of the ground pry

Striking blooms giving throughout the seasons

Spanning beauty across many regions

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People try comparing you to a rose

But they will judge rose versus marigold

And it cannot compare to how you grow

Favor manifold marigolds tenfold

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The oranges, whites, yellows and burgundies

Have glamorous and bewitching designs

Leave me feeling these calming certainties

Because summer can now be redefined

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Marigolds come and go every year

Always bringing intoxicating cheer

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My mother always loved marigolds and poetry. She was a short statured woman, only 4’7” in height. She was soft spoken, yet demanded respect. She was the strongest woman I knew. This poem was hers. She was so amazing, and she taught me so many wonderful things. She often used marigold metaphors to teach me lessons.

Her name was Antoinette, and she went by Tony. She was only 13 when she gave birth to me. How did she know how to be such a good mother? My mom told me that parenting and caring for someone is a lot like growing marigolds. This was one of the first lessons she taught me. It came naturally to her, and she thought this love and kindness should be standard. She would often read to me and sing me lullabies, even when I was a teenager. She received no help from my grandparents. I never knew anything about my father, and she never had anything to say about him. I never missed him because my mother provided me with more than enough care and love.

Tony was a very proud woman and wouldn’t take a single hand out. She always said that she was fit enough to pull her own weight and more, and boy did she. She worked three jobs so that I could be a kid. I was spoiled too. I got to play in all the sports. She paid for me to have private violin lessons. She even made sure I was stylishly dressed for every occasion. Tony was a very proud woman.

When my mother was murdered, it rocked my world. Darkness blanketed me. When she died, I could still hear her voice. I knew exactly what she would have said in every situation that came my way after. She would tell me to be a marigold. What she meant by this I couldn’t comprehend.

She was murdered by her brother, my uncle. He was my favorite uncle and to this day I feel guilty for that. Uncle Bruce was obviously the black sheep of the family and has a very serious mental condition. He couldn’t hold down a job because of his schizophrenia. No one cared for him like my mother did. He would always swoop me onto his shoulders for a ride to the gas station for candy until I was too big to ride. Any candy I wanted could be mine when my uncle was around. The candy ritual never stopped until my mother’s death.

It’s still confusing to me after all this time why he did it. I get that his mental health was declining because he had stopped taking his medicine, but my mom would’ve given her baby brother anything he needed. My grandparents had passed away a few years before and she was the only one to care for my Uncle Bruce. When I was a young child, I used to think he was a grown up with a wild imagination. He was so fun, and it was like having a best friend around at all times. He would play hide and seek, he’d bike ride, he played pretend and many more games.

My mother often understood people’s anger and didn’t know why anyone would raise their voice. She was always patient when Uncle Bruce would have an anger episode. She would sing to him to calm him. This never failed, except when it did. It was the last time I saw her. That horrifying moment still haunts me.

Her funeral consisted of me, my two uncles, my aunt and my mother’s three dearest friends. She was laid to rest in her finest clothes and as her casket was lowered, we put our marigolds to rest with her. I cried like a bumbling mess would. I couldn’t help from shaking. I could only wish to hold my mother in my arms one last time. I just didn’t have the wisdom to know what to say to her in that moment. I don’t take after my mother as much as I would like to. Maybe goodbye and I love you would’ve sufficed.

This would be another time when she would tell me to be a marigold. That lesson I never fully understood, until recently after reading her poem over and over. She meant that I should be easy going, yet strong. I should not have many things I do not need. Care immeasurably for everyone and their happiness. Give immensely. Don’t compare yourself to others or let others define you. You are the pilot of your life, and you can reinvent yourself anytime. Bring happiness with you wherever you go. These lessons will only lead to a more fulfilling life, like Tony’s.

Although her life was cut short, I will always remember her through the marigolds and her poetry. And so, she lives on. The marigolds grow annually, and it reminds me of her and of a simpler time, when my mother taught me about the power of being and growing marigolds.

I thought I would just be angry with myself and my uncle forever, but turns out, I knew just how to be the marigold that Tony could be proud of. Another lesson she taught was marigolds are forgiving. When one withers, you can deadhead it and it will encourage the rest of the flowers to continue blooming profusely.

I soon forgave my uncle. At first, I couldn’t even think about him without disdain, let alone go and visit him. He now resides in a home for people with mental health conditions. They ensure he is taking his medicine and remains well. I visit him every day now, marigolds in hand. He always brings the candy. This is how we celebrate her life. My uncle and I are both mentally fit and we continue to encourage each other to keep blooming. Mom would be so pleased to know how well her gardens have grown. Tony is a very proud woman.