On 412 Dean Street stood a house that father time couldn’t bribe to join him. The house itself wasn’t much to look at but, the garden kidnapped your attention. My mother cared for it with love and tenderness which emanated throughout the plants themselves as they grew.

I would always suffocate in the garden as a child every time she’d call me to help her. I hated it.

With every step down the brick path the ivy would wrap itself tightly around my ankles shortening my stride. The overwhelming smell of peaches pierced my nostrils throwing my senses off so I’d get lost. My eyes spiraled in every direction getting caught by the mesmerizing colors of the orchids taunting me, laughing at my struggles, waiting for my surrender. When I fell to my knees I’d crush philodendron, knowing she’d yell at me once she found me, I still cried because I didn’t like it here.

Why would she leave me this?

I stood in that very spot again. It changed. Row upon row of peach trees with fruit not yet fully ripened, but they sweetly perfumed the air. Seemingly abundant philodendron carpeted the ground with leaves spread as if to cradle the peaches when they fell. Orchids were scattered in all directions gracing all parts of the garden with their beauty. In the center ivy vines crawled upon the brick path, seizing the cracks while leaving a small trail for visitors.

I cried.