By Mrs.D.

One morning, sitting on the balcony of my Florida apartment, I watched the busy life pulsating beneath the exotic plants, which tower above the sparkling pool. The sun shimmered in the cloudless sky, merging on the pinkish horizon with blue water, caught in its silver net, sinking to the bottom of the peacefully murmuring ocean. Wandering between waving trees, the playful wind brought a fresh breeze, filled with the salty aroma of drying seaweed washed up on the sandy beach.

Taking a deep breath of the saltwater fragrance, I admired the glittering pool, its waters quietly splashing the tiled edges, surrounded by the green foliage. Neatly enclosed by the paved courtyard, a lively fountain played in the sun, providing a calming melody in the moist air, which was filled with scents of the ocean and tree blossoms, and of freshly brewed coffee, wafting through the open kitchen door. Reaching my feet, the gracious royal palms stretched their wide leaves toward the sun, which beamed its warmth down on the garden. Tall and noble, they hardly moved in the warm breeze, enjoying the sunrise, burning with gold along the coastline. There was something magical and fascinating about these proud trees, which always made me respect and admire nature.

The gate opened suddenly, and the gardeners brought a bunch of new trees into the garden. A stunning silver palm drew my attention immediately. Intriguing and mysterious, the slim tree was leaning against the brick wall, waiting penitently for her turn. There was something captivating and beautiful about this gorgeous specimen, something familiar—something I already knew and relived, something I experienced when I was uprooted from my native land.

Some sad and happy memories were connecting me to this exquisite newcomer. Maybe it was nostalgia for the past, sympathy for my dead dreams, lost happiness and friends, fears and guilt, and excitement for the new beginning. Watching the gardeners planting the silent palm into the warm soil, I felt as if it was me, once again, reliving my ordeal and following my uncertain destiny. The quiet palm trembled in the wind, slowly unfolding green leaves, reaching toward the sun, which was bathing her elegant body. She shyly hid her green crown between other trees in the garden, as if she was unsure of her own choice, frightened of her future and of what her life would be like inside this glorious garden.

I wondered, was she as scared as I was when I left my home twenty years ago on a freezing February day to follow my dreams and search for my destiny? Was she feeling the way I did, uprooted and stripped from the past, lonesome for friends and family, isolated and scared, uncertain about everything? Was she as sad as I was about leaving the old life behind, or was she just happy to finally be free, without regrets and remorse, with no tears for the past or lost opportunities? Was she crying inside, falling apart as I did when I watched the approaching train, loudly whistling an annoying tune, making my heart break and shattering my restless soul into millions of pieces? Was she hugging her friends with trembling hands as I did, kissing their wet faces, soaked in rain and tears, shed for the wrong reasons?

Was she battling a war inside her heart, doubting her choice, terrified of an unfamiliar land, only seen in her dreams, or was she following her natural instinct, trusting her gut that the light would be there when she reached the end of the tunnel? Was the regal palm challenging her strength, her faith, and her will to do what it takes to make this land her home, her country? Would she have enough wisdom to accept a new life, new culture, new language, and new friends, and live in solidarity with a new world, or would she hold herself apart from everyone and spend the rest of her life in solitude? Was she feeling as lonely as I was, sobbing like a child, watching the dirty platform of the busy train station through the wet window of the departing train? Was the beautiful palm realizing that it’s the end of her old life, the end of the road, whether it was covered in thorns or rose petals?

Was it hard for her to leave behind everything she had known, everything she had worked for, or was she looking forward to her new future? Was she excited about her new home, new successes, new victories, or did she feel lost and scared, as I was, that her dreams would crash like crystal? Was the royal palm thinking what I thought on that gloomy afternoon, wondering if the new country would welcome me with open arms or abandon me like a piece of unwanted rubbish? Was she happier and braver than I was, less discouraged and sad about her past, lost chances, crushed dreams, or was she strong and smart enough to hide her fears and loneliness behind her beauty?

Why do I still feel this unbearable pain when I recall the day I left my country? Why can I not shake the image of my youngest daughter clutched to her grandfather’s wrinkly face, who was asking if she would ever forget him? Why do I still want to howl like a wolf when I think of my older daughter freezing in her best friend’s arms, whispering, “I will come back for your graduation”? Why do I still feel the agonizing shame of leaving my mother behind for years with my alcoholic father?

Why to this day do I feel as if the earth is splitting beneath my feet when I think about his lonely figure at the end of the train station, holding red velvet roses, covered in hundreds of raindrops. He tried to cheer me up, forgetting that I betrayed our love by running away. Red roses in the rain will always remind me of the guilt I felt when I met his eyes, full of love and desperation. Shivering from the howling, freezing wind, I clung to the cold window of the puffing train, slowly leaving the station, and finishing my tortures. Trading my past for a new unknown world, the promise of a better life, for some reason I did not feel the excitement that should have rushed through my veins like fire, overloading my body with joy and happiness.

What is it about us immigrants that make us feel so sentimental and sad as soon as we’ve planted seeds in our new country? Why do we feel like traitors for running away and leaving behind the suffering land of our birth? Why do we feel so nostalgic for the country that crushed our dreams and broke our spirits? Why do we pretend that not everything was that bad, and are ready to run back, no matter how much we yearned for a new beginning?

Why, as soon as our dreams come true, do we feel homesick and fight nostalgia for everything that tied us to our birth land, which we once called the old country? Why do we only realize what we lost when the time comes to say good-bye? What is it about our native land that makes us come back at the end of our journey? As an immigrant, I have learned one thing: one part of me will always belong to the old roots, no matter how far my destiny may take me.

Reliving the feeling of the royal palm was a good experience, which gave birth to my new children’s book, The Royal Palm, beautifully illustrated by the amazingly talented artist Chanoa. It is a wonderful educational book that provides good lessons for young readers. This charming classic children’s book is available in print and as an ebook. Please enjoy this stunning book trailer, created by a very creative team,
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