This Garden Feels Like Home

I never much thought of myself as an optimistic person, but something about sitting in that garden made everything seem possible. The dandelions whispered happy thoughts and the sunflowers danced of joy. Even the grass seemed to be swaying to the unknown beat that only existed in the garden. A constant ray of sunshine seemed to always loom over the garden. Winter never existed in that garden, only summer. When your toe touches that first blade of grass a certain euphoria washed over your body, drenching you in hope and happiness.

All good things must come to an end though. At the end of the day, I have to leave the garden, leave the happiness and must be left with the darkness. When I leave the garden I emerge into a forest, forever full of weeds and unkempt. I don’t live an unprivileged life, only a distant one. My parents pay the bills and I’m truly grateful for that, but they seem to miss the most important aspect of parenting: being there. Every morning I wake up to my mother rushing out the door in her work clothing and my father following shortly after. They run a small business together. The only downside to them running their own business is how time consuming it is.

When I come home from school they are both sitting at the dining room table going through documents. I set my backpack on the same hook after school every day and every day my mother halfheartedly asks the same question. 

“Did you have a good day at school?” All of this is said without even lifting her head.

Every day I give the same monotone response, “As good as any other.”

That’s the most dialogue that’s carried out in this house. The rest of the night consists of my mother and father going into their room to watch television and leave the rest of the world behind until eight o’clock when they go to sleep and the cycle starts all over again. Their cycle always stays the same and they never seem to be able to break it. 

Every once in a while, when I peer over and look into my mother’s eyes, I swear I can see gears turning and wires of all colors. My mother and father even have the same dinner they eat every night as they work, chicken breast, rice and steamed broccoli. All their meals stay the same, they can’t even differ from their cycle a little bit.

Sometimes I hate them for it, other times I appreciate the similarity. Every day is the same, it changes rarely. The only changes that do occur are a simple doctor’s appointment. My hatred remains stronger than my appreciation. I hear about families doing all kinds of activities together. I only dream of doing what they do. The one that sounds the most exciting is going to a waterpark. The splash of water against your face as you splash down the slide or even the sensation of swimming, the water rinsing over your frame, cleansing you of all the pains throughout the day. 

The cycle is restarting; I’m made aware of this by the sun, waking me up. I’m upset with my parents for keeping the same cycle as though they were robots, but the truth is I keep the same cycle. I just don’t admit it. I think it is different from my parents because I’m forced to have the same cycle and there is nothing I can do to change it. The truth is, I chose not to change my cycle. There is safety in doing the same thing every day. 

It is like a sanctuary from the storm that is life, but what good does it do to stay sheltered at all times? No one on the coasts that get ruined by hurricanes keep their windows boarded up all year in preparation. In the plains no one stays locked in their basement in preparation for tornadoes. Living your life in constant fear may feel safe, but it prevents you from experiencing real world experiences. No matter how much you try to hide from the world, the storms will still find you. When you cower all your life the storms tend to knock you off your axis even more. You still experience the storm, but not the experiences that make it all worthwhile. This is why I’ve decided to start living my life to the fullest despite what my parents do. I am not my parents and never will be. 

Instead of getting dressed in my usual sweatshirt and leggings I change it up. Today I decided to wear a pair of blue jeans and a t-shirt. It’s a small act to break a small part of my cycle, but it still is a crack in it. A small crack can lead to the whole thing shattering. My life is like a Jenga tower and this small act of defiance is like taking a piece from the Jenga tower. A few more blocks knock out of the tower and it crumbles; the cycle is broken. When my cycle shatters the garden will grow out of its designated area. The hope I feel in that garden will spread through my veins as though it has been injected.

After my day at school, I head straight for the garden instead of straight home. Usually the only days I spend in the garden are on weekends. This is another crack embedded into the glass. Another rip in the seam, waiting to unravel the rest. The prospect of my cycle being broken already lights me up with hope for a better tomorrow.

The garden appears even more beautiful today, in the glow of the sun, but I must say I do prefer the luminescent moon. I happen to be allowed out some nights to visit the garden, but only on nights when I feel I need a little help to remain joyful. The moon casts a certain light onto the garden that adds an aspect. Everything appears prettier in a silver light, warmer. Not like the sun shining a bright yellow light. The sun always tries to remind everyone that it can burn you with a simple touch, a lethal touch. The sun makes everything look distant, stern. The moon on the other hand makes everything look warmer. It’s not as harsh as the sun, it’s the kind of light you want to befriend. The sun today shines differently today. I think it looks as though it’s opening up its arms offering to give anyone who steps into it a hug. A tight, motherly embrace. The kind I wish to get from my robotic mother. I don’t think it’s entirely her fault. She really does think she is doing the right thing. 

I set my bookbag onto the grass just beside the rest of the garden. Slowly I unzip the backpack to reveal all of its contents. I slip one hand inside of my bag to retrieve a book, a mystery one. A sort of whodunit novel. I delight in reading in the garden, murder mysteries are my favorite. Trying to figure out who the murderer is before it is revealed is perhaps my favorite part. I can never actually guess correctly, though I still like to try. It is my belief there is no greater cowardice than giving up. Trying is the easiest thing to do and if you give up that step then can you really do anything? 

With my book I take a few steps deeper into the garden and settle down besides the lilies. Such a beautiful flower they are and even a pretty name. I could imagine falling asleep right in this spot, the grass against my back is quite comfortable. To my right are the lilies in their perfect rows, waiting to be danced on by bees. On my right are sunflowers with their obnoxious colors, showing off how tall and beautiful they are while waving in the wind. I lay down on my back when reading in the garden. The lilies beside me are hanging over me. They are a beautiful blue color. The sky almost matches them in color, but somehow the similarity makes them stand out more. The sunflowers also drape over me. They both cast a shadow over me, blocking the sun from burning me with its touch. 

I leave the sanctuary of the garden to go back to my house and crumble the cycle tomorrow. My parents however have no interest in breaking their cycle so of course when I walk in the door I get the same question. 

“How was your day?” my mom questions me without lifting her head. I can see her eyes scanning whatever is on the paper she is glaring at. It must not be something good based off the slight twitch in her eyebrow and the way she is breathing slighter heavier. 

“Can we please skip the pleasantries?” I angrily grunted. Over the years this question has felt less like my mother genuinely wondering and more like when you see your boss out in public and can’t just ignore them. You have to be polite and go up to them, start some boring conversation about how they are and how their kids are doing. When the truth is that you don’t really care at all you just want to leave and continue what you were doing.

“Honey, what do you mean?” my mother finally looks up from those documents that are so important to her. She finally looks me in the eyes as I speak. Her eyebrows knit together, showing her genuine confusion at why I’m mad. 

“What do I mean?! Mother, we do the same thing every day. You and dad don’t even change the meals you eat everyday–,” my mother cuts me off in the middle of my rant. 

She attempts to explain, “Your father and I assumed you liked the familiarity, our schedules are just so busy–” This time I cut her off during her explanation. I’m so tired of this and all of these excuses.

“You are too busy for your own child! I get if you are busy, but you decided to bring me into this world so you might as well act like I’m actually here. The only time I talk to you is when you ask how my day was. You know how ridiculous that is? I don’t only deserve better, but so do you. You cannot tell me you are completely content living like this.” I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. I can feel a certain weight lifted off my shoulders at my feelings dump right now. 

My mother takes a long sigh and drops her head, “I had no idea you felt this way, I’m so sorry. We will work to change this for you. You do deserve better.”

I can feel my cycle shattering. 

Crack!

Ding!

Crack!

My Jenga tower is falling, my cycle has been shattered. A new life is promised to me. New opportunities will be mine. I can be spontaneous without feeling a crushing weight in my lungs. The first thing I want to do with this new sense of freedom and hope is to go and hug my mom. I run up to my mom and crush her in my enclosed arms.

My mother brushes my hair back and softly whispers into my ear, “Oh sweetie, I am so sorry. I love you.”

And there is the phrase I’ve always wanted to hear. Three words, eight letters, hundreds of feelings tied to it. For the first time the phrase doesn’t sound like it is being spoken by a robot, incapable of feeling, but by my loving mom who makes me breakfast and sends me off to school.

“I want to show you something.” I pull back from my mom and grab her hand to start leading her to the one place that I feel like I need to be. The place that first gave me hope, a sense of freedom and the place I want to celebrate always being able to feel hope. 

My dad follows after my mom and me as we walk out to the garden. When we arrive, I first walk my mother over to my favorite spot, right next to the lilies and sunflowers.

“I wanted to show you the garden, but specifically this spot right here.” I gaze at my mother as she grins at the lilies. We have both sat down on the grass, so she is peering upwards towards the lilies. My dad comes walking around and sits down next to us.

My mom tells me while still looking at the lilies, “My middle name is Lilly. I always hated it, but I think you are giving me a new sort of love for it. Showing me these beautiful flowers and the fact that this is your favorite spot throughout this entire lovely garden. This right here, next to the lilies is your favorite spot.”

To keep the conversation going I chime in, “This is the spot I first felt a sense of hope for a happier, better life and now I have achieved that, this garden will always stay with me, in my heart and in my soul. It is the first that allowed me to feel hope and joy.” I lay down onto my back. My mom and dad follow my movement, my mom on the right, closest to the lilies and my dad on the left next to the sunflowers.

I can feel a slight breeze, combing through my face. I can smell the aroma of the flowers. I feel serene right here right now, more so than ever. There is an emotion coursing through my veins. Hopefulness, stronger than ever before. Not like the hope I have felt, but the new sense of hope I will feel from now on. What a lovely feeling this is, hope.