The sunflower appeared suddenly and unexpectedly. One day, the yard looked the same as always. Pink ti plants framed the windows. Orange bulbine filled the space between them, their flowering stalks attended to by bees and butterflies. But the next day, just to the right of the bulbine, the sunflower emerged like a solitary sentry.
At first, the yellow petals were closed to the world, embracing each other atop the velvet stalk. On the second day, they opened, exposing the flower’s center to its namesake. Two suns in the yard. Two bright spots in a time of pain. Nature volunteered itself in the place it knew I would look.
Initially, the sunflower stood tall and regal, but as the days wore on, it bent closer and closer to the earth, hunched beneath its own weight. My head, too, felt heavy enough to curl me into a tight spiral. We sat and looked at each other, the sunflower and I, and green and yellow became the whole world.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Letters on Being to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.