Sunflowers

Sunflowers

Kris Ann Valdez

The day you passed   
the lovebirds gathered  
in the bare, gnarled branches  
of the neighbor’s tree.  
I stopped to listen to their  
bouquet of songs, to  
admire iridescent wings.   

Today, I invite my child and dog  
to pick flowers with blunted scissors,  
but the child clips the withered grass instead  
and says,  
“We need this too.”  

When we walk past the gnarled tree,  
the flock is gone and an ache   
roots deep inside me.   

At home, we arrange the grass   
In our crystal vase and I pretend   
they are flowers anyway.   

Your baby’s second birthday passed  
when you were in the hospital.  
A solitary cake his mother didn’t choose,  
party hat lopsided, string digging into his chin. 
Your milk drying up under fluorescent light  
while you fought for breath.   

I wake, startled, at midnight,  
my own baby suckling in his sleep,  
aware your passing is the unrooting  
of your family,  
and cannot be undone.  

Tomorrow, I am going to  
take those blunted scissors,   
and find sunflowers, 
your favorite.   
It’s the least I can do 
while I still have breath.  

---

Kris Ann Valdez
Poet & Mother

Kris Ann's personal essays on motherhood have been featured in Motherly, Motherwell, Motherhood Mag, among others.  Her novel-length work is represented by Stimola Literary Studio. You can find her work at krisannvaldez.com

Photography by Mikail Mayim