Gardening

My garden is full of weeds in the shape of Hershey kiss wrappers and dirty sippy cups. Cracker crumbs ground like seeds, lost pacifiers their fertilizer. Favorite blankets and missing puzzle pieces. This garden is covered in all manner of mess, waiting to be pruned, tilled, dug up to clear a path to the next room. Some days, the weeds overtake me, gnarling around my feet, finding their way up to my wrists. They wrap around my lungs and chest, the dread seeping in as I choke. They need no water, no sunlight; they can exist anywhere. From my bondage, I notice two little girls, free from worry in a world of their own, built only on imagination inside of a yellow tent. They hum and giggle, oblivious to the grown-over land around them, the dropped pretzel rods like spiky stems of dandelions or forgotten Playdoh like the stubborn roots of tubers. They see only flowers blooming through this chaos, unbothered by the scraps of yarn and broken crayons. The flora arrives in the shape of cozy dolls for cuddling, miniature wooden family members for doll houses, hand-painted by my own mother. Building blocks and board books and pretend nail polish and every princess doll that exists. The sound of whispers and giggles and cooing brings a new breeze to the room. When will my world ever be this messy with such joyful things? I think. The woven weeds release their grip, bit by bit, from around my wrists and chest. When will I have such a happy bouquet? If I keep looking, the weeds might look like flowers bursting free.

MOTHERHOODKayla DyerFebruary 23, 2024motherhood, mother, children, childhood, gardening, poetry, poems, poem, poet, writing, flowersComment