Raised from the very sun of California, my history goes out short. I still long to see the purple flowers that beautifully stained the very sidewalks of my city. It is etched in my mind of the sound of the rain that would fall outside as the soft breeze carried in the fresh smell of wood and dirt. It pains me to even remember the morning birds wake up call and the small rustles of the possums in my backyard at night that urges me on for a good night sleep. It has only been months but I can only vaguely remember the faces that I used to see each day. Faces of the mountains in the orange sun-lit horizon. If only I may go back to the tranquil beaches, where the sands softly grazed my ankles as the salty wind caressed my body in its arms. Just to think about the house I once had dwelled in brings memories of the hillsides where I have spent countless hours playing with others who, just like me, enjoy the surroundings. Adventurous I was, to explore the secret places and to get closer to the heart of this city.

South Pasadena, the small and secluded, is my hometown. The place where tragedies and miracles happened. The city boasted of a population of 20,000 and was proud of the long rows of Oaks and pines that marked the boundaries to the little city. It was a city that had a promising future.

It is the place where I fell. It is the place where I got up. It is the place where I cried and where I held ground. And yet, all these memories hold onto one thought and one thought only - it is a place I still want to be.