There’s a bittersweet feeling whenever I see cherry blossoms. I suppose it comes from the absence of my grandparents—I’m not too sure.
See, I was such a quiet little kid. I hardly ever talked and I preferred being alone and minding my own business. It just seemed easier to seclude myself because it was a better alternative than to listen to my family bicker. I remember that happiness came in the form of spending time at my grandparents’ house every single summer. It was absolutely liberating—a nice change of scenery because I got to spend two whole months with two people who never argued and frankly, were just better to be around.
The cherry blossoms, yes. My grandma had a cherry blossom tree in her backyard and I recall picking the petals that had fallen to the ground and collecting them because they were so beautiful and painfully simple. It helped take my mind off of all the negative atmosphere going on with my family. Not to sound cheesy, but I love my grandparents. At least on my mom’s side I do. I’ve never really grown accustomed to my dad’s side of the family.
Anyway, whenever I think about my childhood, most of my memories come from those impeccable summers where I would spend my time just wandering and playing, pretending that I was someone important—somebody who had it all figured out and had no troubles, because that’s how I felt. I felt inexplicably happy.
My grandpa worked on a ranch for racing horses. It was so green back then, so full of light. I remember the smells (some not too great) and the feeling of the wind blowing whenever I stood on top of that hill. I remember feeding the horses and fishing in the stream nearby the ranch. I recall watching a hoard of cats run across the field because the ranch owner was a (scary) cat-lady. I felt that I was having a pretty great childhood because of them.
Then they moved and those happy summers came to an end. Now I hardly see them because they’re so far away in Mexico. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy that they’re happy—but I feel as if I’ve lost a part of myself—my inner child. I don’t really know how to get her back and sometimes I just want to cry. I want to sit down and cry every time I pass their old house because the cherry blossom tree is still there, but the view is different.
What used to represent happiness now gives me a sense of bitterness. I hate it. I honestly hate that I can’t spend time with them anymore. I don’t like how the years are going by faster and they get older and older while I’m just here, seemingly living my life away from the two people who practically raised me. I feel half-empty, like I’m not being true to myself if they aren’t here with me. And that tree makes it worse—it’s a constant reminder that who I used to be isn’t the same girl I am right now. Perhaps that’s a good thing. I’m not as shy and reserved as I was when I was a kid, and I’m not as narrow-minded because of it.
The lessons my grandparents taught me are what I’ve gathered from the summers I spent with them. I learned to not judge people by their appearances or reputation, or manners, and how to keep an open mind on just about anything. But most importantly, I learned to keep going no matter how tough life gets—I learned to persevere.
My grandparents started with absolutely no money to their names and now they’re lounging in Mexico with all the money they’ve worked to earn over the years. They never gave up despite how many people were against them taking risks like coming to the U.S. But they did it; and they never thought twice about it.
That’s what I want to do. I want to take chances despite the odds and prove that I can accomplish something great. I plan to show that I do have potential and I will put it to use. That’s just who I want to be.