Elena didn't grow up in the mega-metropolis called Los Angeles. Her childhood home rested on the slopes of Quetzaltepec, San Salvador's massive volcano. As lush as a Rousseau painting, her Central American backyard was a tropical paradise. Bamboo and banana trees, eucalyptus and pepper trees guarded the perimeter; the fragrance of hibiscus, gardenia and orchids seasoned the wind. Her mother grew their own coffee, ginger and cinnamon; she tucked fresh vanilla beans in their sugar jar; she picked mangos, then flavored them with salt, lime, hot sauce and crushed pumpkin seeds.

It was a land colored with the exotic. It was a land of bold sunsets and vivid tomorrows.

Like Elena, I didn't always live in a land of polished-chrome cars that chain link to one another during rush hour. Once I lived in a small town, on a street that stretched an entire block from beginning to end. Back then our family of eight filled a tiny Victorian farmhouse, with a heavy accent on the word "farm." We had no running water in our bathtub, no carpet on our floors and no hot water in our kitchen. In fact, a dinosaur dominated the kitchen sink: a cast-iron hand pump. I could never conjure water from that beast-it seemed a supernatural ceremony that only my parents and my older siblings could master.

But my backyard was heaven. Not as poetic as Elena's, still it was filled with the Midwestern magic of fireflies and tree houses; it was everything I could imagine and more. It was the outermost perimeter of our home: that carefully defined edge of safety, that boundary that pressed against the rest of the world. It was the place where I met with other children, where we debated the vast difference between older brothers and neighborhood bullies.

But change is part of life. It comes, unheralded and sudden, like a storm in the middle of the night.

The last time I drove down that street, I discovered that my childhood home was gone. In its place stood a grassy plot, much too small and barren. Somewhere along the way, the owners gave up. They didn't fix the plumbing or refinish the floors. They didn't nurse it back to its turn-of-the-century glory. They let it pass away, quietly, as the 20th century bled into the 21st.

Likewise, Elena flew back to El Salvador last week. To say goodbye. Her parents were selling her childhood home. For the first time, she walked through empty rooms, heard her footsteps echo over bare floors, saw her shadow fall across unadorned walls. Outside an ambrosial orchard of orange, grapefruit and mango stood silent, citrus colors peeking at her between mossy leaves, memories dancing through green shadows. Over the years the yard had become wild and overgrown. And now it waited, hopeful for the next owners to love it as much as Elena's family had.

Although unpleasant and unexpected, change often forces us to appreciate that which is lost. It forces us to long for those good things that have yet to happen. If we allow it, it can force us to admit that this lovely home we have, this serene haven, is only temporary.

And is but a shadow of the home that awaits.

Blessings always,

Merrie Destefano
Editor