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The Seed Packets

The Zinna

The Seed Packets

—Dr. Manh Dang, Author
 
The Seed Packets
 
Over the years she brought them home,  
those seed packets to plant someday. 
Each one a bud of dream alive 
that in due time flowers will bloom —
petals of red on stems of green,  
pistils of white with hearts of gold. 
Colors abound in fragrant scents 
that calm one’s soul and soothe all pain.  
 
But time has passed with life embroiled; 
her garden stayed a barren soil.
Duty and work and cancer came.
Though hope besought what life couldn’t give
those seed packets remained within 
kitchen drawers, planting deferred. 
 
Pensive moments remind her when  
her sweet mother grew flowers then, 
and taught her well what each would mean: 
symbols and signs love may presume. 
Her most cherished is this small bloom,
“Zinnia” the name in its glory. 
“Enduring love” is its symbol assumed.  
 
Like a river life swiftly flows 
through the seasons leaves come and go. 
Mom has long gone into God’s arms. 
Sweet smiles of hers are shadows now.
and her soft touch is revery.
Her voice echoes in memory. 
 
Then on one day by chance she found
the seeds burried in corners there. 
Believing that they’ve aged so long, 
the life within dried up by now, 
she threw them out for birds to glean. 
Some scattered in the summer breeze. 
Some landed where their fate may please. 
 
Decends the rain from summer clouds. 
A few weeks pass; her garden greens. 
One morning as the mist just clears, 
She steps outside to greet the dawn;
Her eyes behold what she held dear —
A Zinnia…in a planter…blooms! 
 
Reaching heaven is a bridge too far 
but love sets sail from heaven’s stars. 
So this morning, as the sun climbs,
from an old seed comes love abloom. 
From high above mom comes a smile. 
Despite the fog the years may bring, 
love finds its path into the clear. 
Heaven and earth love has brought near. 
 
Reaching heaven is a bridge too far
but from a seed of love without 
she sees within love still abounds; 
she sees within love blooms year round…
 
Photo credit: The Zinnia, by Linda Bourgeois, PhD
 
I have modified what Dr. Dang wrote about me in his post on FaceBook. He was my oncologist until he retired and now writes beautiful poetry.   I was honored he chose my humble little Zinna for a poem.
 
“This poem is written in dedication to all cancer survivors. It is inspired by Ms. Bourgeois’ relationship with her mother, the true story she shared with me about the “chance” Zinnia, and her journey as a Neuroendocrine cancer survivor.”
 
“She is a psychologist, an author, a patient, and a friend of CCI. In her previous life, she was an”
 
Administrator of a Women’s Community Health Center, a University Instructor in Psychology, and her last position was as a Diversity Director at Mississippi Valley State University, an all black University in the MS Delta, Representative Bennie Thompson’s district, and the poorest of the poor in the United States, live in this region.
 
“Her message to fellow cancer survivors is, ‘Always believe you are living your best life.'”
 
“Thank you, Linda, for sharing your journey and for your service!”
Dr. Dangs words are within quotation marks; mine are not.
—
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Good Morning God, It’s me Linda (2)

I wake up crying every morning God. I want to go home to the little green house I burned down. I cannot go back to something that is not there. I want to see my Mother and Daddy and of course, there is always Freddie.

Jackie closed on Freddie’s house almost exactly the day in May he did, when he bought it back in 1994. My sister thinks maybe it would help me to go and walk through the house again. But would it? I would only cry because Freddie is not there. Whether Jackie bought it to “keep it in the family” or she knew inherently I needed to go back is a puzzle.

I think of the good times we had together seeing the places he had learned to love during his time there. He had chosen to live there. As he once said, “I thought you hated me.” and I replied “How, son, could you think I hated you when all my life I fought for you to live.” I lost that fight, God. You only lent him to me and yet I never really thought he would die before me. I knew he would die, but not before me. That is not how it works but I guess in the world You made it works that way for many mothers. Do You pick and choose which ones of us will bury our children.

Speaking of Children. What do you do with the “ren” when one child leaves and you no longer have children? You are left with one child; not two children. Intellectually you know that the “ren” went back to You but it is so difficult to wrap your head around why we have children and then child. You say we are all children of God but You only had one son. Did You adopt all of us when You sent Jesus to earth to die for all of us on a cross? Or did he have to die that way so we would pay attention to who You were through his dying. Well I learned through Freddie’s living and dying many life lessons I would have rather not have known that way.

I taught all these things to students about life and love and loss. But I had yet to learn exactly the real meaning of what I was teaching. I wonder if I am being punished for something I did in the past that was so horrendous that Freddie had to die for me to learn? How do we know, God?

We have free will, You say; We choose, You say. And I realize we must experience loss to realize what we had. We all die a little bit each day and some of us die a whole lot the day one of our children die and we are left with only one child.

God, I cannot imagine how much You must have cried when Your only son was so cruelly spit on and beaten and nailed to a cross. I am sorry God he had to die so we might live. There are so many mean people.

I go on each day, God. I say I am fine and there are days I smile at the world. I just want to go home God. But there is no little green house to go to and You have not chosen me yet.

Have a good day, God. Please hold Freddie’s hand. Sunday is the day he died and You know it is a day I dread. The day is like a tape recorder. The tape keeps looping over and over, never changing, as I relive the day he died. I am better but I do not think those images will ever dim. But You know. They never dim for You either because ministers all over the world of every religion preach it to us every Sunday. So We remember, You and I. Thank You for letting me hear Freddie’s voice singing at Galloway each Sunday.

You know when I will be there. I hope we have roads and birds and trees and flowers. Freddie and I will ride the clouds and gather up the stars in our blackberry baskets to bring to You. Mother can make us a Starlight Pie and we can all eat and be filled again, hearts not broken, but mended.

For all this and more I am thankful.