The Sunflower Tradition
On what would have been Lily’s seventh birthday, Patrick came to me holding a small packet of sunflower seeds.
“They were her favorite,” he whispered. “We should still celebrate her.”
So we planted them.
The first patch was uneven, messy, far from perfect. Some flowers leaned too far to one side. Some never bloomed at all. But when the first yellow face opened toward the sky, Patrick stood in front of it with tears in his eyes.
After that, it became our tradition.
Every spring we turned the soil together. Every summer, Patrick sat among the sunflowers and talked to Lily like she was sitting right beside him.
When he made the baseball team, he told the flowers first.
When he lost his first tooth after she was gone, he whispered the news into the garden.
When he was sad, angry, proud, or scared, he went there.
And I let him.
Because for years, that small patch of sunflowers was the only place where Patrick’s grief seemed to breathe instead of choke him.
