“My childhood was a blur” is a phrase many teens find comfort in, their youth slowly slipping from their hands, departing only to leave a bleak and confusing future. Moving around, I feel as if I have left a piece of me in every home I’ve lived in, my childhood scattered in different places, and I’m unable to pick up the pieces. However, this is not specific to only me, those in my family have left dreams and hopes in the past, stuck within the drywall of those homes, painted over by those happier than us, more fortunate, and definitely more hopeful. 

The first house I lived one was one I enjoyed calling, “the big red house.” Looking back, it certainly was not a large home, but in the eyes of a small toddler it could have been a castle, and it was the place that I spent the first couple years of my life in. The best part about it, though, was the wildlife. Essentially in the middle of a forest, our backyard was home to animals of all kinds, from bears to coyotes. Yet, I was sheltered and unaware of the outdoor life that resided outside of the big red house. I never seemed to pay attention to the garden my grandmother tenderly cared for, laying directly in front of the house. Only once in a while would I enjoy the bright yellow sunflowers that shaded the plants beneath. On sunny days she would venture outside, feeding the plants that desired life so bad, only to die a couple of months later. Not only were the plants thriving because of her, but she was thriving because of them, giving all of her life to that luscious garden, only for me to ignore it. I ended up picking flowers out of the ground and ruining the artwork that gave her life.

We moved when I was five years old, and there was no garden in the next home and no garden in the one following that. No fresh vegetables, no flowers, no art, and no life. For two years we resided in a farmhouse of sorts. I didn’t know how bad everything had gotten, but I knew that the garden was gone, and the red house painted over, now a dull shade of gray. No longer were bright flowers in my hands, but drywall, remnants of happy memories that once were. Eventually, those memories were lost too, and the house was torn down as we moved onto the next one, a modern home taking its place.

“The yellow home” took the place of the farm, and a Japanese maple tree took the place of the luscious garden. My grandmother now poured her life into my infant brother, and unlike the garden, he was taking everything from her, leaving her empty. She slowly began to lose her joy, unable to take in the sunlight and grow like the beautiful sunflower she was. 

Within the past couple of years, she has been re-potted, planted into a new and colorful pot on a brick-colored balcony. I was surprised to enter a new home and see a flourishing garden at her fingertips, each new flower and vegetable separated in their pots. At that point, I felt as if I was reliving my childhood, and although this house doesn’t have a name, it’s where I rediscovered my grandmother’s happiness through her new garden. She separated herself between each pot and gave every plant a new life, expecting nothing in return. I know I will never see those sunflowers ever again, and that part of my grandmother left long ago, but one day I hope I can bring myself back together and flourish like my grandma.