His Sunflower

You like to pretend that flipping through your old photo albums is a sweet experience, not a bitter one. That you’re simply reliving the moments in there, not just wishing you could still do everything you used to. There’s a certain photo that really hits you in the heartstrings whenever you see it. It’s a candid Polaroid of you in your kitchen, a bubbling laugh etched on your face. You can practically hear your song playing out of the small speaker pictured on the counter. As your nimble fingers fiddle with the small card, your eyes catch a glimpse of its backside. As you flip it over, you notice a scrawl of writing, something you don’t think was there before. 

“My sunflower. xoxo, Will.”

Sweet boy, you think, as a smile creeps onto your face. He must have written it the other day and slipped it back into the album without telling you. A heavy rush of emotion suddenly floods your senses and begins to pool in your eyes. You hate the way tears make your eyes feel, but lately, crying is one of the only things you’ve been able to do. 

Cancer really is a bitch.

But now you’ve got this photo, so you’re going to allow yourself to feel some other emotion today. It’s almost like you’re addicted to nostalgia, because what else is a bedridden 79-year-old woman dying of cancer supposed to do? 

Leaning your head into your pillows and shutting your eyes, you take yourself back in time. 

You aren’t stuck in bed all day, but you’re strolling through the park on a warm spring afternoon. You aren’t pushing 80 and terminally ill. Instead, you’re 24 and absolutely whipped for him. You can remember the single happiest moment of your life, the day he said to you—

 “Move in with me, Lea.” 

And of course you accepted. He lived in a white two-story house in the city, which was not too big, but not too small. It was the perfect size for the two of you. He owned a small five-seat sedan, which he would park on his block by a little oak tree the city had planted. In the house, you shared a bedroom and a two-sink bathroom on the second floor. The ground floor housed a kitchen, a cozy living room with a small fireplace and chimney, and an office which you’d agreed you would share. Your favorite part of his little house had always been the kitchen because the huge windows would illuminate the room perfectly on a sunny day. 

His little yellow fridge brought you a comforting feeling of joy, too. You didn’t really know why, but looking at it just made you smile. 

Maybe it was because Will himself reminded you of the color yellow. Like the fridge, he provided you with sustenance and refreshment that you couldn’t get from anything or anyone else.

He was bubbly and happy and beautiful, your little ray of sunshine in a cloud-filled world. 

After you’d unpacked all your things and settled in (which, admittedly, took all afternoon and evening, until the task was finally finished at 12:30 the next morning), you remember scouring the cabinets for a midnight snack, but being interrupted by a pair of arms wrapping around your waist and dragging you towards the center of your kitchen. You’d shrieked and tried to wiggle out of his grasp, screaming “No, Will, put me down! Stop—AH!” But he’d set you down on the kitchen floor and started to play a song from his speaker. The cheerful lyrics were flowing through the air as he stepped towards you.

Sunflower, my eyes, want you more than the melody.

He’d grabbed your hand and twirled you around on your tiptoes, and you’d wrapped your arms around his neck as he’d turned you around to face him, pure euphoria sparkling in your eyes. 

I couldn’t want you any more, kiss in the kitchen like it’s a dancefloor. 

He’d suddenly leaned down towards you, parting his pink lips to whisper into your ear. You remember the feeling of the goosebumps erupting down your spine and arms as his warm breath caressed your face, and as he spoke, you swore the chills had found their way into your heart from the outside in. 

“You’re my girl, my beautiful sunflower,” he’d said softly into your ear.

Your eyes had filled with tears as his hands suddenly flew up from your waist to cup your face, capturing your lips with his in a passionate kiss. Sure, you’d kissed before, but this one knocked every other innocent peck out of the park. Your knees seemed to turn to jelly as he softly pressed kiss after kiss to your lips, and the rest of the world seemed to fall away as you stood there, wrapped up in each other, neither one of you dreaming to let go. 

Sure, you were both delirious and half-awake in the late hours of the night, but every detail of that kiss remained embedded in your memory. When the thought of it crossed your mind years later, you swore you could feel your knees go weak, the same way they did on that beautiful night.

When your lips had finally parted, his hands had sunk back down to your waist, and he’d rocked you back and forth in a lazy waltz until the song ended. Both of your faces had seemed to be molded into a permanent smile for the rest of that night. And in that moment, everything was perfect.

Then you wake up. 

He’s standing across from you at the edge of your bed, his wrinkled hand reaching out for yours, eyes illuminated with the same brightness they’ve shown for half a century. 

“Come dance with me, Lea.”

You raise your eyebrows weakly. “Will, the doctor told me to take it easy today. Chemo this week was brutal.”

“Don’t care. Please, baby. Just one more time.” 

So, despite all the medical advice you’ve been given in the past few months, you reach for his hand. He gently leads you as you limp on fragile legs to your kitchen. When you arrive, you lean on the counter for a moment to catch your breath as he begins to play your song from his phone. He shuffles towards you and places his delicate hands on your waist. Neither of you speak a word, but the silence is enough to indicate what you’re both thinking. His words meet yours in a shared consciousness. 

“I’m going to miss you so much.” 

You rest your head on his shoulder as he holds you impossibly closer. His hands grip your waist softly, yet tightly, silently begging you not to leave.

Even though it's inevitable, it doesn't mean it's going to make it any easier when you're gone and he's left on his own.

He'll be forced to carefully fold all your clothes into piles and place them in the bottom drawers in your bathroom and bedroom.

He'll hide your key to the house, your cell phone, and your wallet with your I.D. in some random box that he hopes he'll forget about, because looking at those would just be too hard.

He'll keep your photos on the walls and counters, though, because he still wants traces of your face in his life.

He doesn't want to face the reality that one day, in the far too foreseeable future, you'll just cease to exist. You'll leave your house for the last time and never come back home. He'll never again see you do all the little things he loves so much. He'll never again be able to gaze into your eyes and at your face, memorizing every little detail, line, and blemish on your skin.

He doesn't want this to end.

But for right now, you can tell that he's trying to ignore those thoughts. The tears brimming in his eyes glitter in the light of the setting sun as they silently begin to run down his wrinkled cheeks. His thumbs rub small circles into your waist as he plants a kiss on your forehead.

And as he rocks you into a waltz, possibly your last ever, in this moment, everything is perfect. 

Sunflower, my eyes, want you more than the melody. 

Song credits: Sunflower, Vol. 6 by Harry Styles