“I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do for him.”

“The operation didn’t work. His brain didn’t take to the surgery.”

“We knew the risks were great… But, we hoped-” A broken howl of despair rings out in the flashing hospital room as the weak beeping finally stopped, and the machine sung the final call.

They decided to bury me in the yard of my favorite park: an abandoned realm of lost joy. I would spend hours out there just watching the birds fly in the gray sky--and play with the paint-less toys. The bars of the swings had lost their color several years ago, but they were still a magnificent tree for the imagination. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t see the colors: The park was a blank canvas for my blind eyes. I was so close to finally moving forward… Three months and I’d have graduated. Four months and I’d have my own apartment. Five months and I’d have started college… But my brain couldn’t handle it. It had swollen until my skull couldn’t hold it and tumors started to grow.

The surgery didn’t work.

I open my eyes and the azure blue sky expands above me. Birds with feathers like rainbows soar and swoop in the sea of sky and clouds. I turn my head and see the bright red and yellow of the swings and slides. The pristine figures of the toys all put together--not a scratch. Kittens and puppies run around with joy in their paws, playing around together. Children swim in the sandboxes, flowers in their hair and on their limbs where bruises used to be. Teens and fellow classmates who had been long-gone now sit together in a big circle--chatting and singing and joking with each other with liveliness they never had before they left. That was when I realized... The park was never abandoned. It was always inhabited. The park was a whole world made of what our world discarded, creatures included. It was where we go when we leave. We join those we miss. We go to the home we needed.