In defiance of city life, being a country girl raised on a farm, I planted a garden in my backyard to remind me of my childhood home. I would be lying if I didn't say I needed something to help relieve my stress.
My husband worked fifteen hours a day, seven days a week. Not having a job, I was left alone to raise our son, who I loved dearly.
Raising a son in the city wasn't easy to do. At a young age he learned to be a man – in some ways, the man his father was not. Often he protected me from the troubled kids he grew up with and the gang members who wanted to recruit him.
He, my Marquis, was a gentleman who held doors open for people, assisted the elderly, looked out for the young and defenseless, and was always ready to stop the abuse of any kind. Just a brave, kindhearted, intelligent soul.
Marquis assisted me in my garden. Every day we worked side-by-side: planting and watering the soiled seeds, awaiting the delivering of their fruits. We didn't have to wait long for them to bloom, releasing their beauty into our yard.
The beauty of our flowers had to be maintained, the removal of intruders – the dreaded weeds was necessary.
One morning, on our way to the store, I found someone had trampled my flower bed. The beautiful flowers crushed where they had once bloomed.
Standing alone, in the garden, was a single weed.
Angry at the loss of something precious, I refused to pick the single weed. It remained as a reminder of how cruel life could be.
A few weeks passed before I gave any attention to the lone weed, growing in the garden of death. But I noticed the weed had grown into a mini tree. Marquis offered to pull it by it's roots out of the ground but I did not let him. The mini tree brought memories of my toddler, Marquis, playing in the backyard. The memory touched my heart and I could not hurt the cute mini tree.
The rain kept us from doing any activities in our backyard for over a month, so, the next time I saw the weed, it was a young tree with tiny buds amongst it's leaves. It gave me hope to someday escape the chaos of city life and return to the farm I loved. I wanted Marquis to experience farm life at least once.
A week later, Marquis, attacked by gang members, died in the alley behind our house. Devasted, I carried flowers out to the spot where my Marquis had perished. On my way back inside the yard, I saw the weed. Not only was it taller, but it had blossomed. Beautiful petals covered the plant. How could I chop down something so beautiful? I would be the same as the gang members who chopped down my son in the prime of his beautiful life. Sadly, I let the weed live.
Days passed. Weeks passed. Months passed. Seasons passed. Before I knew it, winter and all its hardships arrived. I knew for sure that the weed would die during one of the ice and snow storms we received. It did not, instead, it seemed to grow taller. It was a survivor.
Another year came and went and the weed tree stood tall, just as Marquis had.
The following summer, exceptionally hot, made it difficult to be outside. Wanting to be out in the fresh air, I set a chair under my weed tree and sat in the protection of its leaves. It was now a protector, just as Marquis had been.
I could never chop the weed down.
