My Garden

My Garden

So, in the spirit of growth and overcoming life’s struggles I wanted to write a post about 2018, the hardest year of my life so far. It was when everything changed. When my viewpoint of the world, my family, and everything around me shifted. I have yet to find the words capable enough to explain how the year progressed for me, but there is one thing I created a while ago that shines a light on my life around that time. 

See there was a point at the end of the year when I couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t deal with the sadness, the doubt, the heartbreak. So, I did what I always do when I feel down, I wrote. This is a poem I wrote on Nov. 21st, 2018. The moment I decided to get better. The moment I told myself I would be happy again. I called it, “My Garden”: 

My Garden

I want to share my life with someone.

All of me. 

My heart, my soul, my loses, my achievements.

My goals and my aspirations.

But I’m reminded, Not Now. 

Nobody wants to deal with what’s broken. 

When a glass shatters, who really wants to clean it up?

It’s left for someone else to deal with. Not now, they say. 

Nobody wants to deal with a person whose hurting.

They hear one word of sadness and freeze or flee.

Who can one talk to?

When you feel all alone.

They claim they’re here, but no one really knows what to say.

They don’t realize

You don’t say anything.

You listen. 

2018 has by far been the worst year possible.

My sister had a miscarriage.

The effects of which had not left. 

I spent the whole summer taking care of my dying grandmother.

I sat with her when she was lonely. 

I laughed with her to lift her spirits.

I held her hand when she thought no one cared about her.

I remind her of love when she needed it most.

I took care of her.

Fed her, cleaned for her. 

I watched her die.

Because I loved her. 

And then she left. 

She died.

I was afraid of her impact.

Not only the impact of her death but of her life.

What did this mean for my family?

Were my parents strong enough to grow from this.

Or would this end all of us.

Would we crumble from her presence?

Would my parents love end? 

There was so much fighting. 

So much turmoil during her life.

I couldn’t be mad at her; it wasn’t her fault.

I loved her.

But what about my family?

People showed their true colors. 

My sister left us to avoid helping.

I still felt alone.

My other sister felt betrayed by us.

In a time when we needed to remain together.

Never before did we have to fight to remain together. 

But I couldn’t be mad at my grandmother.

 I loved her. 

Meanwhile, I was scared for my father’s life. 

What are you to think when your father throws up blood?

Major surgeries can be a bitch. 

But he made it through. 

One flower blossomed in a drought. 

Then my sister got married.

My grandmother got to witness that.

She witnessed me graduate.

Two flowers blossomed in a drought. 

Then my other sister got pregnant. 

Can we even rejoice?

When the baby causes major sickness.

The mother who’s sick and in pain.

Can we rejoice?

When the threat of another death hangs over our heads. 

But still, three flowers blossom in a drought. 

When will 2018 end.

I can no longer walk in that bathroom.

No longer stare upon her empty bed without the reminder of her absence. 

Of her episodes.

Of her illness. 

I can’t be mad. 

I loved her.

Who then to be angry at?

It’s a symptom many of us are facing.

Where does this anger go? 

Not now they say…

I want to talk. 

Want to release these feelings of anger.

Of sadness. 

Of pain.

Not now they say…

And so I pretend. 

I am happy.

I am laughing.

I am rejoicing. 

I am working,

But silently..

I am sad. 

I am lonely.

I am grieving.

But I am strong. 

I am growing.

Not now they say…

When? 

It doesn’t matter. 

I will grow alone, and I will grow strong.

I will be okay.

Four Blossoms grow in a drought. 

And they will continue to grow.

I am blessed. 

I am loved. 

I am under God’s eye. 

I will be okay.

And when 2018 ends

My garden will begin to grow. 

Thank You,

See you soon,

APB.

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