My girlfriend of two weeks asks me what my favorite flower is. I tell her it is lavender. I tell her that is also my favorite color. I neglect to tell her that this is because for the last year and a half, whenever those three syllables have slipped from my tongue they are disguising the “I love you” I planted in the throat of the girl before her. I have dug so many holes I cannot find my way out of in an attempt to untangle myself from the poetry and love letters and bottles of perfume, but I have learned to accept we will always have roots within each other. It’s funny, my girlfriend hates the color purple.

When I pose the same question to her, she tells me she does not have a favorite flower but loves the color yellow. It’s a happy color, she says, and sometimes you can use a little extra happiness. As our conversation continues I am reminded of the sunflower field that blooms every spring a small drive away from my house. It is accompanied by a one-car, self-serve car wash and what can only be described as clown cars of families and lovers spilling onto the asphalt before the front line of gold. I speak of this fairyland escape to her and with no hesitation it is decided we will have our first date amongst the people and petals, guiding each other hand in hand as we weave through the towering stalks. The next day she sends me a photograph of herself, face half hidden behind the head of a sunflower, but the corner of her smile still peaking out. I reply with a mirroring image of myself taken two years prior in a sunflower field so similar, but states apart. It reminds me of when people say that no matter the distance between you and someone you love, you will still always look at the same moon. 

I know I will never again be able to see lavender among a field of wildflowers and consider it like those it accompanies. It follows me in the clothing I wear, the gifts I receive, the candles I burn, and the first mark I made on my skin with the intention of keeping something forever. I told myself that that tattoo was an act of self-love. I still don’t know who I got it for. Regardless, I am no longer seeking it out. I smile at the cherry blossom trees I walk past and pick a daisy or two to tuck behind my ear. The single daffodil that has bloomed in my garden every year since I was born stops me in my tracks. I am reminded to keep my vase colorful rather than leave dead purple longing within its glass heart. And when all is said and done, and I let my head rest at the end of the day, I dream of sunflowers. 

-Abby Selbst