I
Growing up, my mom grew marigolds in our backyard. They lined the side fences along Charlie and Florence’s yards, but sometimes, you could find them scattered around the front yard. Now they sit in a black pot, near my parents’ back door.
II
At a restaurant for my friend’s 48th birthday, dried marigolds hung from the ceiling. Dozens of muted yellows, oranges, and reds above my head. Just like the marigolds tattooed on my left arm that I got two months after our failed egg transfer.
III
There is a gold album floating in space. On it are recorded sounds of life on earth from the 1970s. A decade that feels more and more peaceful, quiet. Even though it wasn’t.
IV
This morning, I stare at three deer in our backyard. A family, I repeat with envy.
V.
Marigold, the name I wanted to give our daughter, if we were lucky enough to have her.
Luck is what it is really about,
at least that is my hope
and not that someone or something
didn’t think our becoming a family
was a good idea.
VI
Life is about waiting.
VII
Life is about cycles, in all senses of the word.
VIII
Marigolds are a hearty flower, good for inexperienced gardeners.
Stefanie Wielkopolan 