Grief, In the Form of Marigolds

I took a respite from Monday,
as I recover from Sunday--
I am glad that Mother's Day is over.
I dislike Mother's Day.

I am the Ebeneezer Scrooge of Mother's Day.
I am the Grinch of Mother's Day,
and on that day,
until I take my last breath,
my heart remains two sizes too small.

I can't help it--
I've tried
to be
positive and reflective.

(As an aside,
even if I was a human mother,
I probably would feel the same way.)

I slept the morning away--
cried in the afternoon,
and gardened until evening.

My fingertips are sore
from digging in the dirt,
in the attempts to bury
some of the grief
in the form of Marigolds.

Mother's Day is a wound
that I mistakenly thought
that the busyness of life
could block out

(like a cheap band aid)

Until all of the advertisements
and storms (literally) and life stresses
ripped it open again--

exposing a fresh scar,
and, as grief often does,
stopping me in my tracks