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Purple Vineyards, Soft Orchards
I am making my way back to the house. Gravel is stealthily slipping into my dusty sandals. The sun is beating down on my back, the heat penetrating through my clothes. Young grape vines are crowding me on either side of the path. Their fingers are outstretched thankful for company. Small, plump grapes dangle like earrings from fickle branches. Waxy leaves shelter drips of water from the light sprinkle of rain they got the night before. Grasshoppers push their way through dirt refusing to budge. And then the fruit changed. Peaches bulge out of packages of green leaves. The sun reveales the soft texture of the fruit, soft as the lobe of my ear.
vulture, I scannscan the horizon. And that wasis when I understood. That wasis when I The orchards wereare smiling behind the dust clearedclears from my walk, you couldcan see it. hinges still bentbend and creakedcreak with old trees that gavegive flavor to
It was all so foreign, but rooted in my heritage. A part of me that people may never see, a part of me that is so precious because of its place that is so close to my heart. A little piece of the vineyard growing and thriving. Its roots in my heart and its branches bending with the weight of healthy grapes into France and the hearts of my family.
(the picture is the real place)

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Purple Vineyards, Soft Orchards
Waxy leaves shelteredshelter drips of
Just beyond the reach of the grape vineyards lay the peach orchards. The orchards are my favorite. They stand tall, old, wise. Their vains lace up strong trunks. One tree stands the tallest. It is in the middle of the orchard. Its roots in an entangled bundle at the foot of the tree. If I sit precisely in the right way, the roots transform into a big chair. Looking up, you can see the skeleton of the weathered tree. I can only see it sitting in that chair. I am the only one who could see older, withered leaves and broken branches. I am the only one who can see the newborn, sprouting leaves. Only me. Only I can see. When people take a breathe and sit down upon foundations they relax. I relax. We can look up through the world's gnarled and twisted branches. But through the leaves peeps the sunlight who nurtures the vineyards and browns my back. There is hope through the ugliness and there is understanding through thick confusion. After sitting awhile my body becomes restless. My feet find the knots nestled in the rough bark of the peach tree. My hands find tough branches. And I climb up the tree. Not climb, but fly. And then I reach the top. I crouch on the tallest branch. Looking like a vulture, I scann the horizon. And that was when I understood. That was when I realized. Hope in the face of the sun and the purple of the grapes. Hope in the blue of the sky and the cauliflower clouds. Hope built into the base of my cousin's house and hope threaded through the labor of the fields. I made my way down the tree and onto the road. The orchards were smiling behind me. Their fresh perfume remaining in the stitching of my clothes. And when the the dust cleared from my sauntering walk, you could see it.
The rustic stucco house, and the protective iron gate. And the large welcoming windows with large overhangs that held candles dripping melted wax. I can distinctly smell breakfast, chocolate croissants, and freshly picked fruit. I sit down in an old wooden chair and run my fingers across the table that surpasses my own age. I can feel the years of hot sun and long days of harvesting. The vineyards are beautiful now, the sun hitting them just right. Their leaves a beacon of pure gold. I walk inside to get a cool glass of water. The condensation drips down my arm. It is eerily quiet but peaceful. An old stereo is running. No t.v. just piles of books. I like it that way. I walked upstairs to check if my cousins are awake but they are all sleeping, dreaming. I walk back down the tiled stairs without making a sound and slip back out the chipped-painted door but the hinges still bent and creaked with old age. The sun is now fully awake, watching over the house and the grapes as if they were her own children. Breakfast is still teasing me, the smell taunting my nose. But I wait, it is tradition. I dive into the pool, just fresh water. Luke-warm water. Butterflies dance in the air, only me to watch them. And the plants are growing toward the pool deck, just to get a sip of that fresh water. Isabel stretches her arms and waits at the table. I get out of the pool and sit down. Nicholas and Jenna walk out of the door and slump into their chairs. Their eyes are still hazy and dreamy. Then my family stumbles out of bed with my aunt and uncle. Apricots, cherries, peaches, and pears are passed around. The croissants are gone. Only flakes of the pastry mark their existence on smooth colored plates and the smell of bitter chocolate lingering, faintly. We all sat at the table, a table that is now part of the family, of tradition. We are all quiet, as if the the survival of the the grape vines depend on our silence. Our eyes grazing the tips of the olive trees that gave flavor to homemade bread at dinner. And the frogs that await our exit in the puddles of rain in the dirt. Sprouting plants try to push their way through but they struggled under the weight of the frogs.

{IMG_1930.JPG}
Purple Vineyards, Soft Orchards
I wasam making my house. Gravel wasis stealthily slipping The sun wasis beating down grape vines wereare crowding me Their fingers wereare outstretched thankful plump grapes dangleddangle like earrings before. Grasshoppers pushedpush their way changed. Peaches bulgedbulge out of The sun revealedreveales the soft
Just beyond the reach of the grape vineyards lay the peach orchards. The orchards are my favorite. They stand tall, old, wise. Their vains lace up strong trunks. One tree stands the tallest. It is in the middle of the orchard. Its roots in an entangled bundle at the foot of the tree. If I sit precisely in the right way, the roots transform into a big chair. Looking up, you can see the skeleton of the weathered tree. I can only see it sitting in that chair. I am the only one who could see older, withered leaves and broken branches. I am the only one who can see the newborn, sprouting leaves. Only me. Only I can see. When people take a breathe and sit down upon foundations they relax. I relax. We can look up through the world's gnarled and twisted branches. But through the leaves peeps the sunlight who nurtures the vineyards and browns my back. There is hope through the ugliness and there is understanding through thick confusion. After sitting awhile my body becomes restless. My feet find the knots nestled in the rough bark of the peach tree. My hands find tough branches. And I climb up the tree. Not climb, but fly. And then I reach the top. I crouch on the tallest branch. Looking like a vulture, I scann the horizon. And that was when I understood. That was when I realized. Hope in the face of the sun and the purple of the grapes. Hope in the blue of the sky and the cauliflower clouds. Hope built into the base of my cousin's house and hope threaded through the labor of the fields. I made my way down the tree and onto the road. The orchards were smiling behind me. Their fresh perfume remaining in the stitching of my clothes. And when the the dust cleared from my sauntering walk, you could see it.
The rustic stucco house, and the protective iron gate. And the large welcoming windows with large overhangs that held candles dripping melted wax. I can distinctly smell breakfast, chocolate croissants, and freshly picked fruit. I sit down in an old wooden chair and run my fingers across the table that surpasses my own age. I can feel the years of hot sun and long days of harvesting. The vineyards are beautiful now, the sun hitting them just right. Their leaves a beacon of pure gold. I walk inside to get a cool glass of water. The condensation drips down my arm. It is eerily quiet but peaceful. An old stereo is running. No t.v. just piles of books. I like it that way. I walked upstairs to check if my cousins are awake but they are all sleeping, dreaming. I walk back down the tiled stairs without making a sound and slip back out the chipped-painted door but the hinges still bent and creaked with old age. The sun is now fully awake, watching over the house and the grapes as if they were her own children. Breakfast is still teasing me, the smell taunting my nose. But I wait, it is tradition. I dive into the pool, just fresh water. Luke-warm water. Butterflies dance in the air, only me to watch them. And the plants are growing toward the pool deck, just to get a sip of that fresh water. Isabel stretches her arms and waits at the table. I get out of the pool and sit down. Nicholas and Jenna walk out of the door and slump into their chairs. Their eyes are still hazy and dreamy. Then my family stumbles out of bed with my aunt and uncle. Apricots, cherries, peaches, and pears are passed around. The croissants are gone. Only flakes of the pastry mark their existence on smooth colored plates and the smell of bitter chocolate lingering, faintly. We all sat at the table, a table that is now part of the family, of tradition. We are all quiet, as if the the survival of the the grape vines depend on our silence. Our eyes grazing the tips of the olive trees that gave flavor to homemade bread at dinner. And the frogs that await our exit in the puddles of rain in the dirt. Sprouting plants try to push their way through but they struggled under the weight of the frogs.

Purple Vineyards, Soft Orchards
I was making my way back to the house. Gravel was stealthily slipping into my dusty sandals. The sun was beating down on my back, the heat penetrating through my clothes. Young grape vines were crowding me on either side of the path. Their fingers were outstretched thankful for company. Small, plump grapes dangled like earrings from fickle branches. Waxy leaves sheltered drips of water from the light sprinkle of rain they got the night before. Grasshoppers pushed their way through dirt refusing to budge. And then the fruit changed. Peaches bulged out of packages of green leaves. The sun revealed the soft texture of the fruit, soft as the lobe of my ear.
grape vineyards laidlay the peach The orchards wereare my favorite. They stoodstand tall, old, Their vains lacedlace up strong One tree stoodstands the tallest. It wasis in the If I satsit precisely in the roots would transform into up, you couldcan see the tree. I couldcan only see chair. I wasam the only branches. I wasam the only one couldwho can see the Only I couldcan see. When my body would becomebecomes restless. My feet would find the knots nestled My hands would find tough And I would climb up then I would reach the top. I crouchedcrouch on the vulture, I scannedscann the horizon. wax. I couldcan distinctly smell fruit. I satsit down in chair and ranrun my fingers table that surpassedsurpasses my own age. I couldcan feel the The vineyards wereare beautiful now, the sun was hitting them gold. I walkedwalk inside to The condensation drippeddrips down my arm. It wasis eerily quiet old stereo wasis running. No my cousins wereare awake but they wereare all sleeping.sleeping, dreaming. I walkedwalk back down sound and slippedslip back out The sun wasis now fully children. Breakfast wasis still teasing the smell tauntedtaunting my nose. But I waited,wait, it wasis tradition. I dovedive into the water. Butterflies danceddance in the the plants wereare growing toward water. Isabel stretchedstretches her arms and waitedwaits at the table. I gotget out of pool and satsit down. Nicholas and Jenna walkedwalk out of door and slumpedslump into their Their eyes wereare still hazy my family stumbledstumbles out of and pears wereare passed around. The croissants were gone now.are gone. Only flakes the pastry markedmark their existence table that wasis now part tradition. We wereare all quiet, grape vines dependeddepend on our frogs that awaitedawait our exit Sprouting plants triedtry to push
It was all so foreign, but rooted in my heritage. A part of me that people may never see, a part of me that is so precious because of its place that is so close to my heart. A little piece of the vineyard growing and thriving. Its roots in my heart and its branches bending with the weight of healthy grapes into France and the hearts of my family.
(the picture is the real place)

{lost{Children-African.jpg}
{lost generation poem.ppt}

{IMG_1930.JPG}
Purple Vineyards, Soft Orchards
my ear.
Just beyond the reach of the grape vineyards laid the peach orchards. The orchards were my favorite. They stood tall, old, wise. Their vains laced up strong trunks. One tree stood the tallest. It was in the middle of the orchard. Its roots in an entangled bundle at the foot of the tree. If I sat precisely in the right way, the roots would transform into a big chair. Looking up, you could see the skeleton of the weathered tree. I could only see it sitting in that chair. I was the only one who could see older, withered leaves and broken branches. I was the only one could see the newborn, sprouting leaves. Only me. Only I could see. When people take a breathe and sit down upon foundations they relax. I relax. We can look up through the world's gnarled and twisted branches. But through the leaves peeps the sunlight who nurtures the vineyards and browns my back. There is hope through the ugliness and there is understanding through thick confusion. After sitting awhile my body would become restless. My feet would find knots nestled in the rough bark of the peach tree. My hands would find tough branches. And I would climb up the tree. Not climb, but fly. And then I would reach the top. I crouched on the tallest branch. Looking like a vulture, I scanned the horizon. And that was when I understood. That was when I realized. Hope in the face of the sun and the purple of the grapes. Hope in the blue of the sky and the cauliflower clouds. Hope built into the base of my cousin's house and hope threaded through the labor of the fields. I made my way down the tree and onto the road. The orchards were smiling behind me. Their fresh perfume remaining in the stitching of my clothes. And when the the dust cleared from my sauntering walk, you could see it.
The rustic stucco house, and the protective iron gate. And the large welcoming windows with large overhangs that held candles dripping melted wax. I could distinctly smell breakfast, chocolate croissants, and freshly picked fruit. I sat down in an old wooden chair and ran my fingers across the table that surpassed my own age. I could feel the years of hot sun and long days of harvesting. The vineyards were beautiful now, the sun was hitting them just right. Their leaves a beacon of pure gold. I walked inside to get a cool glass of water. The condensation dripped down my arm. It was eerily quiet but peaceful. An old stereo was running. No t.v. just piles of books. I like it that way. I walked upstairs to check if my cousins were awake but they were all sleeping. I walked back down the tiled stairs without making a sound and slipped back out the chipped-painted door but the hinges still bent and creaked with old age. The sun was now fully awake, watching over the house and the grapes as if they were her own children. Breakfast was still teasing me, the smell taunted my nose. But I waited, it was tradition. I dove into the pool, just fresh water. Luke-warm water. Butterflies danced in the air, only me to watch them. And the plants were growing toward the pool deck, just to get a sip of that fresh water. Isabel stretched her arms and waited at the table. I got out of the pool and sat down. Nicholas and Jenna walked out of the door and slumped into their chairs. Their eyes were still hazy and dreamy. Then my family stumbled out of bed with my aunt and uncle. Apricots, cherries, peaches, and pears were passed around. The croissants were gone now. Only flakes of the pastry marked their existence on smooth colored plates and the smell of bitter chocolate lingering, faintly. We all sat at the table, a table that was now part of the family, of tradition. We were all quiet, as if the the survival of the the grape vines depended on our silence. Our eyes grazing the tips of the olive trees that gave flavor to homemade bread at dinner. And the frogs that awaited our exit in the puddles of rain in the dirt. Sprouting plants tried to push their way through but they struggled under the weight of the frogs.
It was all so foreign, but rooted in my heritage. A part of me that people may never see, a part of me that is so precious because of its place that is so close to my heart. A little piece of the vineyard growing and thriving. Its roots in my heart and its branches bending with the weight of healthy grapes into France and the hearts of my family.
(the picture is the real place)

TypePurple Vineyards, Soft Orchards
I was making my way back to the house. Gravel was stealthily slipping into my dusty sandals. The sun was beating down on my back, the heat penetrating through my clothes. Young grape vines were crowding me on either side of the path. Their fingers were outstretched thankful for company. Small, plump grapes dangled like earrings from fickle branches. Waxy leaves sheltered drips of water from the light sprinkle of rain they got the night before. Grasshoppers pushed their way through dirt refusing to budge. And then the fruit changed. Peaches bulged out of packages of green leaves. The sun revealed the soft texture of the fruit, soft as the lobe of my ear.
Just beyond the reach of the grape vineyards laid the peach orchards. The orchards were my favorite. They stood tall, old, wise. Their vains laced up strong trunks. One tree stood the tallest. It was in the contentmiddle of the orchard. Its roots in an entangled bundle at the foot of the tree. If I sat precisely in the right way, the roots would transform into a big chair. Looking up, you could see the skeleton of the weathered tree. I could only see it sitting in that chair. I was the only one who could see older, withered leaves and broken branches. I was the only one could see the newborn, sprouting leaves. Only me. Only I could see. When people take a breathe and sit down upon foundations they relax. I relax. We can look up through the world's gnarled and twisted branches. But through the leaves peeps the sunlight who nurtures the vineyards and browns my back. There is hope through the ugliness and there is understanding through thick confusion. After sitting awhile my body would become restless. My feet would find knots nestled in the rough bark of the peach tree. My hands would find tough branches. And I would climb up the tree. Not climb, but fly. And then I would reach the top. I crouched on the tallest branch. Looking like a vulture, I scanned the horizon. And that was when I understood. That was when I realized. Hope in the face of the sun and the purple of the grapes. Hope in the blue of the sky and the cauliflower clouds. Hope built into the base of my cousin's house and hope threaded through the labor of the fields. I made my way down the tree and onto the road. The orchards were smiling behind me. Their fresh perfume remaining in the stitching of my clothes. And when the the dust cleared from my sauntering walk, you could see it.
The rustic stucco house, and the protective iron gate. And the large welcoming windows with large overhangs that held candles dripping melted wax. I could distinctly smell breakfast, chocolate croissants, and freshly picked fruit. I sat down in an old wooden chair and ran my fingers across the table that surpassed my own age. I could feel the years of hot sun and long days of harvesting. The vineyards were beautiful now, the sun was hitting them just right. Their leaves a beacon of pure gold. I walked inside to get a cool glass of water. The condensation dripped down my arm. It was eerily quiet but peaceful. An old stereo was running. No t.v. just piles of books. I like it that way. I walked upstairs to check if my cousins were awake but they were all sleeping. I walked back down the tiled stairs without making a sound and slipped back out the chipped-painted door but the hinges still bent and creaked with old age. The sun was now fully awake, watching over the house and the grapes as if they were her own children. Breakfast was still teasing me, the smell taunted my nose. But I waited, it was tradition. I dove into the pool, just fresh water. Luke-warm water. Butterflies danced in the air, only me to watch them. And the plants were growing toward the pool deck, just to get a sip of that fresh water. Isabel stretched her arms and waited at the table. I got out of the pool and sat down. Nicholas and Jenna walked out of the door and slumped into their chairs. Their eyes were still hazy and dreamy. Then my family stumbled out of bed with my aunt and uncle. Apricots, cherries, peaches, and pears were passed around. The croissants were gone now. Only flakes of the pastry marked their existence on smooth colored plates and the smell of bitter chocolate lingering, faintly. We all sat at the table, a table that was now part of the family, of tradition. We were all quiet, as if the the survival of the the grape vines depended on our silence. Our eyes grazing the tips of the olive trees that gave flavor to homemade bread at dinner. And the frogs that awaited our exit in the puddles of rain in the dirt. Sprouting plants tried to push their way through but they struggled under the weight of the frogs.
It was all so foreign, but rooted in my heritage. A part of me that people may never see, a part of me that is so precious because of its place that is so close to my heart. A little piece of the vineyard growing and thriving. Its roots in my heart and its branches bending with the weight of healthy grapes into France and the hearts of your page here.my family.

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Where I'm From
I am from ochre yellow, stucco walls