As a child, I loved the way herbs and flowers grew with no regard for the smallness of my hands. I pressed seeds into soil the way other children pressed coins into wishing wells, believing that patience itself was a form of devotion. The garden was never large, but it felt great to me—rows of basil and thyme breathing out their quiet assurances, mint threatening to take over if left unattended, chamomile bowing its small heads in agreement with the sun. And there, always there, were the marigolds. They were impossible to ignore. They burned in the dirt like small suns, like a declaration that brightness could be practical, that beauty could also be useful.

I prized the marigold above all others. Not because it was delicate—it wasn’t—but because it knew its role and performed it generously. The marigold did not ask permission to protect the rest of the bed. It repelled what would harm, drew in what would help, and stood as a boundary without becoming a wall. Its scent was sharp, almost medicinal, as if to say love does not always smell sweet. Sometimes it smells like assertion. Sometimes it smells like warning. I wanted to grow up and be a marigold. I wanted to take on its discipline and its warmth, its ability to stand close to others without overshadowing them.

I imagined myself as a teacher like a marigold—present, steady, planted at the edge of uncertainty. I wanted to believe that simply by being there, by showing up every day in the same place with the same commitment, I could make learning safer for those around me. I wanted my presence to deter fear, to keep pests of doubt and cruelty at bay. A marigold does not shout instructions. It teaches by example, by persistence, by refusing to wilt at the first sign of heat. And I wanted to be a family member like a marigold, rooted and reliable. I wanted to contribute without needing praise, to nourish the shared soil rather than compete for light. Marigolds do not hoard resources; they make space for others to thrive, and they understand that belonging is not about dominance but about balance, about knowing when to stand tall and when to let another stem catch the sun.

Most of all, I wanted to be a lover like a marigold. I wanted to be protective without being possessive, vivid without being overwhelming. I wanted to offer warmth that did not scorch, attention that did not suffocate. Marigolds love outwardly. They love in a way that benefits more than just the one they are closest to. Their affection radiates, and the whole bed is healthier for it.

It hurts me to think that I have never been a marigold. That I have sometimes failed to protect, failed to nourish, failed to stay when staying mattered most. I think of the people I have hurt—through absence, through sharpness, through my inability to root myself fully in care—and I want to apologize. I am sorry I did not know how to be useful in the ways that matter quietly. I am sorry I mistook brightness for enough.

And still, I set my eyes on it. I am now a man who kneels in the dirt of who I am and press the seed in again. I tell myself that marigolds are not born complete; they grow into their purpose. They learn the shape of the sun by reaching. If I cannot be a marigold now, I can practice becoming one—learning how to stand close, how to protect without harm, how to love in a way that leaves the ground better than I found it.