Previous to 1999, my uncle Don lived in North Surrey. He owned a small house, on a very steep hill, adjacent to a high school and a couple blocks away from a playground. I have many fond memories of his house.

One memory is playing with his African drums; I drove my family crazy with my lack of rhythm. Despite their protest, my uncle Don sat through my concerts and would give me a standing ovation every time.

Quite possibly, my most favorite memory of uncle Don’s house is one summer day, long ago, when I took the time to de-weed his garden. First, you must understand that I come from a family of green thumbs: my na’a could grow and resurrect any plant, my mother grew her own herbs when I was a child, and my aunts had their own gardens, in which they grew all their vegetables and fruits.

I suppose when it came to my creation, the creator decided to give me a black thumb. He used all his green-thumb potion on my other family members. So you could imagine the shock on my family’s face when I told them of my plans with uncle Don’s garden. Being the most supportive male role model in my life, uncle Don showed me where his gardening tools were and left me to my business.

What seemed like hours of hard labor, I finally cleared a small patch of weeds. After deciding I deserved a much needed lunch break, I headed back into the covered porch area where the adults were sitting, drinking their ice cold drinks, and telling their stories. My uncle Don grabbed me some fresh plums and pears from his trees.

I suppose my face and body posture gave away my exhaustion, because my mom asked me if I wanted to go home. Being the stubborn person I am, I said how can I go home when there is much work to be done?!!

Exasperated, I headed back to my new found passion of gardening. I kid you not, hours went by until the entire garden was finally weed free. It took me a good amount of time to divvy up and plant the random seeds I found with my uncle’s gardening tools.

Sweat dripping off my brow, dirt under my nails, and dirt and grass stained clothes, I felt a great sense of relief. I, the black thumb, created a garden!

This story is my home. My home is my family, who supported me in something that they knew was not my strongest ability. My home is my family, who understood my need to finish my task at hand. My home is my family, who praised me when my job was done. And finally, my home is my family, who reassured me when my garden didn’t grow that sometimes we fall down and fail;  the only way to succeed is to continue on trying and have faith in yourself.

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My uncle Don died in 1999 at the age of 49. His house was sold and torn down. It is such a sad site to no longer see his house sitting there, to no longer see the lilac bushes outside his door, to no longer being able to run up to the pear and plum trees and pick the fruit, to no longer see the garden that I worked so hard to de-weed. I take great pleasure and pride in having these memories to remind myself of my home. With the loss of both my uncle Don and na’a, my home hasn’t been the same. But I know that life is constantly changing. I will always have the memories of my uncle Don and na’a.

Na’a and I, Christmas 2012