INEZ

Still sometimes I cry myself to sleep. My mind was still on the day my brother Francisco died. He died in my home country of Venezuela. He always stayed out of trouble and never took drugs we were walking in the lonesome streets of Caracas, until a gang came and asked if he had any marijuana when he said "no" they pointed what looked like a gray 1960 pistol and pointed it at him. I can still remember his scream of "run!" and when I heard the gunshot of the pistol, I knew he was dead.

When I told my parents the sad news, they cried and cried and cried until they ran out of tears. My father beat my mother and me up because he fell into fits of rage. My parents divorced and I moved to the United States of America, my mother by my side. My mother never talked to me she would wallow in her own silent world. I was scared to go outside alone.

The first time I went outside is when I had to get pineapple. Pineapple was my brother's favorite; they are as sweet as my brother's hugs and kisses. I bought enough to feed us, and one to remind us of Francisco. When I walk near Gibb Street I see the garden green with the colors of the rainbow. I see the blossoming child of each vegetable beautiful tasty, colorful, to the eye.

Then a decision came to me. I bought some seeds of Pineapple that garden I decided to join had been running every summer for two years. I got my own free plot of land, and I started making the rich soil light and fluffy, and dark brown like Francisco's hair. When I touch the soil it reminds me of the farm back home.

That same day a man with arthritis with named Sam told me a bit more about Pineapple, telling me to water them frequently. Even if my English is bad, I remember my brother saying "Interact Inez, don't wallow in your own sadness." Sam helped me on the Pineapple as if I was seven and not 17. An old man with an old straw hat, Guatemalan I know, began an elated conversation in Spanish about Pineapples.

After the first day in the Garden I began treating my garden like my children. I was more interactive with other people, every time I am in the garden. When I am there I feel Francisco's spirit all around me. At night I can almost see Francisco watching over the Garden. Even though I took up more space in the community garden of Cleveland, there was another soul interacting with other souls, and that garden reminds me of Francisco. I feel tired and fall asleep with a smile. I know his spirit floats over the garden watching me.