The Silver Leaves

I live surrounded by flowers and fruit trees. Every morning the sun greets me with a bright smile. You’d probably think that I’m living the life. And I would be. If I wasn’t sleeping in my friend’s parents’ Indian Tea Garden. I’m Vishant, I’m sixteen, I’m homeless, and I wouldn’t be anywhere else.

You’re probably thinking, “Oh you poor child. Sixteen is no age to be living on the streets!” or something like that. Whatever. I don’t need you to be worrying about me like I’m a dog that just got in a fight. I’m better off staying in this garden, surrounded by the flowers, and plucking my own mangoes, lychees and jackfruits, than I am in my foster home.

Oh by the way, my parents have been dead since I was ten.

It happened so fast. One day they went out to the stores for groceries. They had left me and my brother alone together at home. We were mature enough to follow their rules and stay safe. Then, maybe two hours later, we heard a knock on the door. I thought that was strange: Our parents had the keys, why would they knock? When I opened the door, there was a police officer who gave me the worst news of my life. My parents were dead. Some idiot alcoholic was driving drunk and crashed into their car. But of course, the drunkard lived. Sacrificing the lives of those whom I loved most for some stupid beer. I swore at that moment that I would never ever drink even a drop of alcohol.

The police found me a foster home, but my brother was just barely old enough to live on his own. I never saw him again after that day. And meanwhile my foster parents would deny me even a bed and pillow.

My only comfort was school. At school I started off not talking to anyone. Anyone who became my friend usually just asked me to do their homework or let them copy for the test. Until one day.

I was reading Percy Jackson and I heard him ask, “So who’s your godly parent?”

I shrugged and didn’t respond. Parents were a bit of a sensitive subject with me.

“At least do you have a favorite weapon?” He interrogated.

“Sword.” I replied

“Hey same here man. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

I smiled behind my book.

“You know, if you put that book down, maybe we’d have a better shot at communicating.”

“I’m sure we would, that’s why I won’t do it.”

“Gosh, that’s nice.”

“Everyone who tried to ‘communicate’ with me before, just ended up using me.”

He laughed.

“Me? Use you? No offense man but there probably isn’t much I could use you for.”

I put the book down, incredulous and was greeted with his outstretched hand.

“Except maybe as a friend.”

“Vishant.” I said, shaking his hand.

“Darshan, but you can call me Darsh.”

Darsh and I spent every day together. When he showed me his parents’ Indian Tea Garden, I was blown away. There were so many beautiful flowers and plants. At the center of the garden was Darsh’s favorite flower. He called it a marisilver. It had the characteristic brilliant yellow flower of a marigold, but it was cross-bred with a rose campion, which gave it shining silver leaves.

Darsh and I were the best of friends. No. He was practically my new brother. When I was fifteen, I told him I was planning to run away. He immediately took me to the Garden and showed me a spot where I could stay. His parents even offered to let me move into their house, but my foster parents would know that I would go there. However, Darsh’s parents insisted upon paying for my high school and even college.

After I started living in the Garden, everything got better. My foster parents never found out where I was, but I don’t think they cared. I got to sleep beneath the stars, amongst the birds and squirrels, with a comfortable bed of grass and a warm blanket of vines.

But most of all, every time I saw the silver leaves of that marigold, I remembered that my parents wouldn’t want me to grieve and mope. They’d want me to remember that they would support me every step of the way. Sorry if that’s too clichéd for you.

Oh wait, no I’m not.

I guess I’m living the life after all.