Chapter 1

When I picture that place now, the first thing I see is the wild strawberries and the banana trees in the garden. The strawberries were tiny, hidden under broad leaves, their red sweetness a secret I discovered on my own. The banana trees stood tall, their broad green leaves catching the sun and throwing shadows that danced in the afternoon breeze. I remember the way the air smelled there—fresh, alive, filled with something I didn't have words for then but now I call love and possibilities.

And then there is the foundation. The facebrick house sat solid and warm, its reddish-brown bricks holding the stories of every day we lived there. But it's the foundation I keep coming back to in my mind. Not the house itself, but the ground it stood on, the place where the walls began. I see a foundation with a scene—is it the starting point, or the end? Maybe it's my portal, to the within. Where all my answers will be found.

I was a child then, and the world outside our gate was a mystery I didn't need to solve. The streets of Alberton were lined with trees and quiet houses, but I rarely ventured far. My world was contained, safe, wrapped in the walls of our home and the scent of the garden. The wild strawberries and banana trees were my companions, my landmarks in a landscape that was still being painted.

That smell of love and possibilities—it reminds me of how great our God is, how sweet His grace, how kind His heart, and how faithful His presence. Those words might sound like something learned in church, but for me, they were as real as the grass under my bare feet. The garden was a place of worship, not in the formal sense, but in the quiet way it spoke of something larger than myself. The banana trees bowed in the wind like hands raised in praise. The strawberries offered their sweetness without demanding anything in return.

I didn't know then that this would become the foundation of everything—the memories I carry, the questions I ask, the search for meaning that would take me far beyond those walls. But the foundation was already being laid, brick by brick, moment by moment.

There are moments from that time I still think about. Many are good memories, but most are absent, and many are painful. The good ones float to the surface like leaves on a pond—the taste of a strawberry still warm from the sun, the sound of my mother's voice calling me inside when the evening came, the feeling of lying on the grass and watching clouds shape-shift overhead. But the absent ones are like holes in the fabric of memory, places where the thread has worn thin and I can't quite see what was there. And the painful ones—they sit deeper, heavy stones at the bottom of the pond, stirring only when the water is disturbed.

I don't know why some memories stay and others fade. Maybe the foundation knows. Maybe the portal holds the answers.

That facebrick house was more than a home. It was a vessel for a life that was still becoming. The garden was its heart—the banana trees reaching upward, the strawberries hugging the ground, the flowers that bloomed in colors I can still name if I close my eyes. The fresh air carried sounds from the street—a bicycle bell, a dog barking, children laughing somewhere in the distance. But inside the garden, the world was quiet, intimate, mine.

I remember the way the morning light would hit the foundation of the house. It would warm the bricks, and I would press my palm against them, feeling the heat seep into my skin. I thought then that if I pressed hard enough, I could feel the house breathing. Maybe I was right. Maybe houses do breathe, in their own way, holding the breath of everyone who has lived within their walls.

The wild strawberries taught me something about patience. You couldn't rush them. They ripened in their own time, and if you tried to pick them too early, they were hard and sour. But if you waited—waited until they were soft and red and practically falling off the vine—they were the sweetest thing you had ever tasted. I think that was my first lesson in letting things unfold as they should.

The banana trees taught me about resilience. After a storm, they would look battered, their leaves torn and drooping. But within days, they would straighten, new leaves unfurling from the center, green and strong. They didn't stay broken. They grew again.

I didn't know then that I would need those lessons. That the foundation I stood on would one day feel shaky, that the garden of my childhood would become a place I could only visit in memory. But even now, when I close my eyes, I can return there. I can feel the warmth of the facebrick under my hand. I can smell the earth and the fruit and the air that tasted like love.

And I can see the foundation. It's still there, in my mind, solid and waiting. Is it a starting point or an end? Maybe it's both. Maybe every beginning contains an ending, and every ending opens into a new beginning. The foundation holds both—the place where the house started and the place where it will one day return to the earth.

But for now, it's my portal. The doorway to the within. The place where I go when I need to remember who I was, and who I am becoming. The wild strawberries and banana trees are still there. The smell of love and possibilities still lingers in the air. And the foundation is still waiting, patient as stone, holding the answers I have yet to find.

I stand at the edge of it now, in my mind, looking at the scene that plays out before me. A child in a garden. A house of facebrick. A world that was big, but made small by the boundaries of love and grace. I don't know yet if I'm stepping forward or backward, if I'm beginning a journey or ending one. But I know the portal is open. And I know I must walk through.