Peyton’s the name. Jewish, and American. Growing up in California, was the best experience in my life. It wasn’t just the state I grew up in, or the state I was raised in. It’s my home, and always will be. It’s where I spent all of my 13 years growing up. It’s where I made the best of friends, and most importantly, where my heart belongs. I never moved a day in my life, except for now. On May 15th, I moved. My parents decided to come here to Cleveland because my mom heard lots of rumors about how Cleveland was such a beautiful place to be, and the apartments are nice. You probably can guess my mom is gullible, always has been from the day I was born. When I heard I was moving, I was traumatized. I couldn’t stop thinking about the friends I would lose, the beautiful warm sunshine I would miss, and the best school I would forget. I didn’t want to move, ever. California was the place I grew up in, the place I could never forget, and I begged my parents to let us stay, I prayed. Tears rolled down my cheek bones when I heard we were moving. The reason I didn’t want to move is because California is the reason I’m me, I don’t think I would be the same. I had to move on, but it takes a very long time to forget about the past, and focus on the future. As were moving into our new apartment, I spotted a garden. Not just an ordinary garden, but a big, beautiful Cleveland garden. We don’t have much gardens back in California, so this was something new. I think I liked it. Change is always good; that’s what my father taught me. My father is big on useful quotes and poetry. I guess you can say I get my talented writing from my father. As I head out to look at the garden, I spot corn. Corn was my favorite vegetable back in California. That’s something I’ll miss terribly. My heart drops as I look at the corn stalks so straight, without a piece bending. And then it comes to me;I feel it. Why did we have to move? Why couldn’t we just have found a better apartment in the center of California? These questions lingered in my brain; I could never answer them correctly. No one knows what I’m going through, and never will. Days go by, and I keep noticing that beautiful garden I spotted a couple of days ago. Flowers, lettuce, cauliflower, tomatoes, pumpkins, and sunshine beaming through the crisp leaves of the trees. I walk in, hoping to spot that corn I noticed before. Instead, I see people. All different kinds of people. Hispanic, black, Asian, and Mexican. They greet me, and tell me this is the Garden. They also tell me that each spot of the garden is owned by someone. The cauliflower is owned by someone, as is the tomatoes owned by another. I get it now. As I leave the garden, I think of a plan. An idea. It comes to me. What if. What if I own a piece of that garden. Any piece, just my piece. I could own corn, or I could own something else. What if I can make this garden even better than it is, if that’s possible. I could make it just like my hometown, and then I won’t feel so upset all the time. That night, I ask my parents what they miss most of our hometown.They tell me the Bird of Paradise. It’s a flower; the most alluring flower you will ever see. I tell them I miss that too, and head to bed. The next day, I head to the near by grocery market and pick up Bird of Paradise seeds, and a shovel as well as a watering can filled with water. Just what this beautiful garden needs. I walk into the garden as if I have been here so many times, and head to a free piece of the garden, right next to the corn. I start planting. And then the tears come, happy tears. My heart is filling with happiness, and I’m proud. I have succeeded, and that’s all that counts. I walk out of the garden with my head held high, and I tell myself how great this garden is. I walk home as the sun is setting. I get into bed, and cry some more. I wake up at 7AM to plant some more. I run over to the flowers with eyes wide open, and jaw dropped. I hear noises, and turn around. It’s my mother, waving her hand to signal me to come over to her. She tells me she has noticed me here planting.
“ Mom?”
“ Yes baby?”
“ I miss California.”
“ Me too. Me too.”
I give her a big warm tight hug, and cry into her arms. She tells me it’ll be alright and maybe this garden is a good start for me. I listen to her. This garden has it all. The vegetables, the flowers, the corn. And I realize why I have been coming to this garden. It reminds me of my home. I’ve physically moved on, but I made my new home just the same. And that’s why I cry, because it reminds me to never give up, that one day I’ll move back. That one day It’ll be like an other day back in California.
That one day, I’ll see the friends I lost, and after all, I have hope. And my mom’s right. The garden is truly is a good start for me. A great start. It teaches me that anything is possible, hope is on the way, and it shows me that being happy is a privilege. You have to work hard to be happy. Have hope for what you believe in. Anythings possible. Giving up is such a weak insecurity; that’s what I learned from my journey here in Cleveland.