The Mammoth Kind

Back when Fountain Drive ended in a field.

Before I knew sunflowers had meanings,

before anyone told me they stood for loyalty,

warmth, devotion, resilience,

or the stubborn little habit

of looking for light,

I knew them as something simpler.

They were across the field.

That was enough.

From Grassy Glen,

the world felt wider then.

The road curved differently,

the fences seemed lower,

the field looked like it went on longer

than it probably did.

But childhood has its own measuring system.

A sidewalk can be a border.

A field can be a country.

A sunflower can be a signpost.

I did not know I was choosing a favorite.

I did not know something yellow and tall

could plant itself that firmly

in a person’s memory.

I only knew they were there,

standing across the open space

like they had every right to be seen.

Not delicate.

They aren’t.

Sunflowers are not the kind of flowers

that ask permission to exist.

They are tall and bright,

bold in the way only sunflowers can be,

standing with their yellow faces

as if they have personally decided

the sun is worth the trouble.

The mammoth kind especially.

The kind that say,

I am here.

The kind that grow from ordinary dirt

and still manage to look

like they had an appointment with the sky.

The kind that turn their faces

toward the sun

not because life is easy,

but because direction matters.

The kind that survive heat,

weather,

wind,

and whatever else comes through the field.

The kind that do not just stand there looking pretty.

They feed birds.

They leave seeds.

They give something back.

I like that.

I like that they look cheerful

without being fragile.

I like that they are bright

without being weak.

I like that they can be beautiful

and useful,

bold and generous,

rooted and reaching.

Maybe that is why they stayed with me.

Because I have spent a lot of my life

learning where the light is coming from,

what direction to face,

and how to keep standing

when the field I remember

doesn’t look the way it used to.

And still,

on the map that matters most to me,

there is a field near Grassy Glen.

There is still a kid looking across it.

There is still a mammoth sunflower standing there,

tall enough to be remembered,

bright enough to become a favorite

before I even knew why.

And now I know.

It was never just a flower.

It was a lesson in becoming.

Stand tall.

Face the sun.

Weather the field.

Leave seeds behind.

And never mistake brightness

for weakness.