I hung the branch of black oak leaves on the wall. On my way to school, I picked them up on the street, dried them in my scrambled-up paper towels, kept them in my backpack all day.

On my way home, I was pondering whether to put the branch in a book or on a wall. Maybe on the wall for a few days, I thought, because I wanted my bedroom to be a forest, as a kid.

But no. As a kid, I wanted my bedroom to be all pink, a glory bubble where only Barbie girls could enter, that shows the ultimate level of taste. “You’ll eventually turn to like black most,” my dad warned me. “People change.” But people don’t change, at least not in a very that my dad suggested. I turned to enjoy green the most, somewhere I could assimilate myself in as one of the animals and hide.

Thus, I envisioned my little plant hanging down along side my fairy light string like a waterfall, sweeping my face as I doze off to sleep. In my mind, I saw a camera frame highlighting the flowing leaves under the shadows of the orange lights, capturing a cozy dream.

So I arrived home, in the space, in my room, looking around holding my branch like a bundle of flowers. Yet, I walked to the window pane instead, hanging my branch there, thinking, although it was evening, the green trees filtered under a clear sky next day would lift up the branch with its leaves.

I looked at the branch longingly after I taped it on, pondering why. Why I deserve and crave for light, anywhere closer to sunshine. I remember the last character in my name, Qing. I laughed at it, thinking my gloomy character couldn’t ever manifest what it symbolizes, sunny weather.

But it’s said that they wish my every day is sunny. My parents.

And I unconsciously chose to tape up the branches at the window pane, where the sun grows, again and again.

Does my name shape me?