The latch creaks gently as I push open the gate. In front of me, a small potting shed covered with wild roses blocks my view. But I already know by heart what lies beyond. And sure enough, as I walk around the corner of the shed, the sight of a familiar garden greets my eyes. But it isn’t just any garden, it’s my garden. Even though anyone can come here, it has always seemed to belong just to me. It has been my sanctuary in times of sadness and my inspiration in times of joy. But most of all, it has always been somewhere where time seems to melt away: where there are no math papers due, no people to be polite to, no mothers to get into fights with. Everywhere I look, a perfect tapestry of color and shape greets my eyes. Here, perfect rays of sunlight reach down long fingers to gently caress the silvery leaves of a grove of aspen trees. There, a vibrant butterfly gently alights on the lip of a delicate blue-and-gold flower, slowly fanning its wings, anticipating its first sip of nectar. I breathe in deeply, inhaling the mingled scents of rose and hibiscus. Slowly, I can feel the anger coiled tightly around my heart loosen its grip. The memory of my most recent fight with my mother starts to fade. Everywhere I look, a perfect tapestry of color and shape greets my eyes For the past few years, our fights have become more and more frequent. Sometimes I feel like just flinging open the front door and running away. Usually I resort only to slamming the door. This time was just one time too many, that’s all. I couldn’t face her anymore. I had finally opened that door and left. At first, my intention was to leave and never return. But now I wasn’t so sure. The garden was having its usual effect on me: putting the jumbled thoughts in my head back into place, sorting out the tangled knot of anger and confusion I felt inside. No matter, I thought. I won’t let myself think about that right now. As I venture deeper and deeper into this garden of miracles, I come to a small bridge adorned with horsetails on either side. Instantly I am transported back in time to when I was six. My Mama and I walk hand-in-hand over this very bridge. “Wait, Mama!” I say, bending over. “I want to see the fishies!” Mama lies down on the rough wooden planks next to me, and we both spend the next ten minutes immersed in the activities of the fish. When we sit up again, slightly stiff and sore, Mama reaches out and pulls a horsetail toward her. “Look!” she says with as much excitement as if she were the one being shown this small miracle for the first time. Gently, she pries the sections apart and lays them on the wet ground next to her. “Now, watch!” Carefully, she picks up each piece and fits them together again. I can feel my eyes bugging out of my head! After a few minutes of labor, she holds up the horsetail exactly as it had been before she picked it. “Ta da!” she exclaims proudly. As my memory fades, I can feel my eyes start to swim with unshed tears. Even though sometimes I feel as though I hate her, I know that inside I will always really love her. Even though sometimes I want to slap her, I know that inside she will always be that same Mama who showed me the horsetails, all those years ago; and that I will always be the same little girl who clung to her hand and exclaimed over the fishies’ activities. For better or worse, she is my Mama, and I love her. Emma Agnew,13Topanga, California Lara Gechijian,13Lincoln, Massachusetts
May/June 2006
Homesick
Leaving my dear country made me sad, made me miss all that was worth remembering the food like foutou the food like attieke the food like aloko. Leaving my African country made me mourn, made me long for the people like the Baoule the people like the Senefou the people like the Dan. Leaving Cote d’Ivoire made me sour, made me cry for the places like Grand Bassam the places like my grandfather’s village —N’Gattadolikro the places like Abidjan. Leaving Papa resting in his grave made me dispirited, made me despairing. I miss him Listening to Louis Armstrong, reading the poetry of Leopold Senghor, calling me his cherie. Soujourner Salil Ahebee, 10Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Sour Memories
Today I go into candy shops and see little bottles of liquid Warhead sour substances and Warhead sour spray. But I can never find what I am really looking for: sour, sweat-producing, face-pinching, tongue-twisting, and eye-watering, irresistible, Warhead sucking candies. I know it sounds weird making so much fuss over something so little as a sucking candy, but it is more than a sour sucking candy to me, it is a memory to me, one memory that has been wrapped, packed and sent from Japan. It all started way back in second grade. Fraser and I met each other the year before but that year in second grade was the year of the Warhead! If you did not know any better, you would say Fraser and I were twins. He is slightly taller than me, but he has brown hair, and blue eyes, two of the many features we share. In fact, I, one of the two “twins,” had mistaken him for me. I was walking into my second-grade classroom when I saw a picture of me on the floor. I thought it was Fraser’s and ran to give it to him. This is how much we look alike. Fraser was a really nice kid. He was a bright and clever kid. He always came up with ideas that everybody agreed on. Even though he was Australian, he did not have an accent. He was someone who was ready to do anything, anytime, anywhere, even if it meant his life. But the thing I liked most about Fraser was that he always had a smile on. He was also daring. He was not afraid of anything. But we always helped each other. Fraser and I were a team. “Let’s see who could hold the sour the longest,” he said with a sinister grin Anyway, he would come to lunch with a goldmine of Warheads. Black cherry, green apple, yellow lemon, every Warhead flavor. He would tell me which he thought was the most sour. He would put more than one in his mouth at a time and tell me which were the best combinations. While he did that he would make funny faces trying to fight off the sour. He would imitate the face on each wrapper on the Warheads (except for the head exploding). He was like a librarian. “Hi,” you would say to him. “What could I do for you?” he might reply. “I am looking for something sweet and sour.” “Hold on.” He would reach into the goldmine and pull out a green apple. “Here you go.” “Thanks.” You would take the Warheads and leave with sour explosions in your mouth. One day while we were in the second grade we were at Fraser’s house when he got up and said, “I’ll be right back.” When he returned, he laid out five black-cherry Warheads (the most sour) on a paper napkin in front of me. He did the same for himself “Let’s see who could hold the sour the longest,” he said with a sinister grin. “Whoever spits their Warheads onto the paper napkin first loses.” “You’re on,” I said, confident of my victory. “On your marks,” he said, “get set, go.” We stuffed the candy in our mouths. Immediately my face scrunched up from the explosion. But Fraser was sitting calmly with that sinister grin again. Can newcomer Michael Madans beat Warhead master Fraser Stead? I thought. Nope. I stared at the Warheads that were just in my mouth and now on the paper towel. Then I just laughed. Once Fraser finished off his Warheads he started to laugh too. And we just laughed and laughed. This was more than just a sucking candy, it was one of the things that made our friendship stronger. Halloween of 2003 was the last time I saw Fraser. We were only in the fourth grade when he moved back to Australia, where he was first born. And that was also the last time I had a Warhead for a long time. It is Warheads that keep our friendship as strong as it is. It was devastating. I just stood there doing nothing, no matter what my heart said. “I guess this is it,” I said. “Yeah,” he said. “Bye.” “Bye,” I replied. I was ready to do something outrageous. But I didn’t. It felt like being strapped to a brick wall. After all these years of happiness, laughter and Warheads, we were going to be separated on Halloween, which is supposed to be a holiday of joy “It was really nice knowing you, bud,” I said. “I am going to miss you. See ya.” And that was it. But little did I know, I did not just say goodbye to my friend, I also said goodbye to the memory of a huge friendship. So that was it. No more Fraser. No more Warheads. I wonder what my life without Fraser would be like without Warheads. Would we remember each other? Would we still be friends? Many things could happen if it was not for that piece of candy. So here I was a fifth-grader, almost sixth, walking down the street. It has almost been a year since I last saw Fraser and the last time I had a Warhead. I think to myself, if I could just taste the sourness, and the sweetness of the memory, my spirit would rise. I wonder if Fraser has Warheads in Australia? Does he remember Warheads and all the memories? I walk into the nearest candy store and think, I wonder if they got more blue raspberry sour spray I reach in and pull out a package of WARHEAD SOUR SUCKING CANDIES. I really do not think when I see it. I just grab it. It is not a bag of candy to me. It is the key to my happiest memories, Fraser. I give the cashier the exact change and run out the door. I open the package and look at
