Isabel in Bloom:

HomeI walk with my grandfatherthrough      a thousand shades of green      plants dressed in dew      flowers flooded in light as birds fill the trees with theirwild loud songs. Our garden comes alive in mornings.Lolo drags a hose the water trickling slow. We pause at a planter ofJasmine      Sampaguita.Weeks ago when I found out I’d have to say goodbye he made me plant it So when you return you’ll see how it’s grown, he said.Jasmine      Sampaguita takes up most of this space. Rows of shrubs like fences small white flowersperfuming the air with their sweet lush musk. But we hover over mine concerned leaves wilted brittle brown stems. No blossoms here.I crouch down.     What’s wrong, little Jazzy?      I ask, almost expecting a reply.Plants respond to humans our voice, our love. It’s why I name and talk to some of ours: Elvis Parsley and Vincent van Grow, my favorite, the Spice Girls (a cluster of herbs named after a music group my friends and I dance to when we play our CDs).     Should I have grown it in the ground?       Or in a different pot?     Or . . . something?      I ask my grandfather.      I don’t know what to do. You should trust. It’s just a little thirsty.Jasmine      Sampaguita has gifted my family our livelihood by learning the art of growing and selling. Its blooms are our survival.I know its petals soft and white. I know its smell without it near but I don’t know why this one looks how I feel —homesick heartsick— when I haven’t even left for California yet.I sigh.   Feeling nervous for your trip, Isabel?       If I don’t like it there, can I come home?To my surprise he nods. But only for visits.Tricked!   Lolo raises my chin so our eyes meet.  Sumpa kita sounds like sampaguita. It stands for I promise you. And I promise you will do fine in your new home.He lays the hose slips it a drip saying something I’ve already heard many times, my whole life. We bloom where we are planted. Don’t Want to Say ItGoodbyes look like summer in my small town green hills and rice fields my best friends and I strolling toward home.Goodbyes sound like chattering about school and friends how next year we all turn thirteen —though they’ll be here and I’ll be elsewhere.Goodbyes taste like tart calamansi from Lolo’s tree round, small, and green that Lola’s slicing and squeezing into drinksfor me, Cristina, and Rosamie.   Ice clinks glasses sweat we take slow sips and our lips pucker from the sweet and the sour.Goodbyes smell like sampaguita flowers Lola’s picked and strung piled high on the table in soft pearly mounds. Bye, Lola! See you tomorrow, Isabel! my friends say. Lola waves back and drapes a single jasmine garland around my neck the way she does with each fresh batch.Goodbye is Lola’s sad smile the waning sun that citrus still on my tongue these white blooms near my heart her warm hand on my cheek knowing how muchI already hate saying goodbye.      Me, Isabel Ligaya, Age Twelve       I’ve never lived in a cityI’ve never seen snow      I’ve never been richI’ve never had a mother take me to a mall.      I’ve never left the Philippines or ridden in an airplane      or wanted to make new best friends because      I love the ones I already have.