Joy In The Mourning
A wail escapes that echos off the tile. This is my new normal.
These days I’m ok with the damp eyes, the slow roll of tears down my face, finding myself sobbing, a snotty heap laying in the middle of a cold, damp floor. My wails no longer startle my dogs or my family.
Weeping may come for the night friend but joy does comes in the mourning.
The Gardner
A soul-less Gardener clipped me too early from where I sprouted along my mother’s roots and transplanted my tender sprouts into a discarded work bucket filled with the foulest compost rubble and discarded twigs.
He tended me primarily with a cruel and heavy hand, providing barely enough sustenance to keep me upright and worthy to carry the name seedling.