My Marigold

Hi Momma.

It's me again. Your daughter—Marigold. Just in case you've forgotten who it even is writing you these letters.

But I do hope you haven't forgotten me. Not yet...

How are you doing this summer? Are you traveling the world? Are you having more fun than me? I bet you are, knowing you.

Everyone—well, mostly Poppa—is telling me to stop. You know, writing to you. They tell me it's a lost cause; they tell me you're never coming back.

I don't know what to believe. I mean, they're right about one thing so far: you haven't come back. Not yet, anyway.

Are you coming back? I keep hoping the answer is yes. But a part of me is afraid that the answer is really no...

Whatever you decide, it won't stop me from writing you. Just know that. I'm still yours and you are still mine. I can't let you forget me...

Oh, there's something I need to share with you. It's really something special.

Lately, I've been going to your favorite place. Well, our favorite place, technically. And I don't really know why. Maybe if I'm there, it feels like you're with me too.

Being there helps me to not lose the hope that I am so close to losing.

But do you remember it? Your favorite place? The meadow? You used to say it was our special place. You used to say it was your favorite place. Because you said it reminded you of happy and hope. You said it reminded you of me.

That is why you named me Marigold, after all. Marigolds are your favorite flower, I remember. Your eyes twinkled when you saw them, especially when we discovered the meadow full of them.

Oh, you were so happy. I was so happy because you were so happy. And, yeah, that day I finally go it, too—why you liked marigolds so much.

They are beautiful. They are happy. They are hope. They are love. They are everything I want; everything I need. They are everything I miss.

They are you, Momma.

That is why I've been going to our favorite place. I've been going to remember you; to remember who you were to me.

It's been so long since I've heard your laugh, seen your smile, or even felt your embrace that I am having to hold onto marigolds in our special meadow to hold onto you.

I hug marigolds to me to remember what it feels like to be hugged by you. I look for the flower illuminated by sunshine to remember the glimmer of your eyes, the brightness of your smile—the sparkle of you.

If I don't have marigolds, I don't have you. If I don't look for you in the meadow, in a flower, then the remembrance of you is slowly going to fade away.

And I can't forget you. If I forget you, I forget what it feels like to be happy, hopeful... I'll forget love.

Do you want to know something? The first time I saw a marigold, I asked you why you named me after one because I couldn't comprehend why you would link me to something so magnificently beautiful.

And do you remember what you said to me, Momma? Because I do. I remember everything. Everything about you; everything about marigolds... everything about us.

Well, what you said was, "Marigolds are sunshine; they are happiness and hope and love. So when I look at you, Marigold, I feel like everything in the world might just be okay."

I somewhat get what you meant by that now. I know the world isn't exactly a kind place. I know nothing is okay. But to have you tell me I was the solution to it all confuses me. Because if I held the power to make everything truly okay, you wouldn't be gone. I know you would have stayed. With me.

I never told you my favorite part about visiting the meadows lately, you know. I haven't told you how perfect and beautiful they look now that they've just bloomed.

All of them, Momma... All of them are full in bloom and stretch out for what seems like miles in the meadow. And it's just like you used to say: it's so happy.

I lay in them, wondering if this way, I could soak up all the happiness too. I think I do that because I've lost it—happiness. Because just like you claim me to be yours, you are my happy.

You are my marigold.

And I've lost you, therefore losing all that comes with you; all that comes with a marigold.

I hug the marigolds, hoping to feel one of your hugs... because your hugs made me happy.

And it does feel like one, truthfully—like a hug. It feels like a warm embrace; it feels like what I haven't felt in too long...

It feels like love.

I wonder if I should invite Poppa to our special meadow one day. I think maybe it would make him happy too. And I personally think he needs a marigold in his life now that you are gone.

I don't think I've ever been his marigold, necessarily. I think you are. I think you always have been. Even now that you're gone.

So, yeah, I'll ask him to come sometime. We could lay in the meadow together. We could lay in the meadow together and remember.

Remember you.

I think summer is the only time in the year I'll ever be happy now. It will be the only couple of months I remember what it feels like to feel happy, hope, love; everything good.

Because for as long as your gone—and I hope that isn't long—there is a part of me that is and will be missing.

You named me Marigold after marigolds. You used to say I am happy, hope, and love like marigolds; that I am a marigold.

But marigolds are your favorite flower. The meadow full of them is your favorite place. You named your own daughter after them because you love them so much.

You are a part of me, and I am a part of you. I am a constant reminder of you, and you are a constant reminder of me. Because we are the same.

We are one marigold, you and I.

So, Momma... How do you feel to have left your other half?

And how do you think I feel to be incomplete without you?