The Schweinitz sunflower brought me back home.
The universe threw me a “gotcha” moment the other day. It started innocently enough, but then that’s the fertile ground where these moments derive their potency. They pop up unexpectedly and result in the equivalent of being hit on the head with a celestial frying pan.
My moment began with a story assignment about an endangered wildflower. My editor asked me during the summer if I’d be interested in writing about the Schweinitz sunflower and the efforts to save it. I love flowers, my dog’s name is Sunflower, and I have a framed copy of Georgia O’Keeffe’s “A Sunflower for Maggie” hanging in my house. I couldn’t say “no.” Plus, I like to venture out of my coifed corner occasionally to see how the rest of the world is doing.
The night before the interview, the biologist I was meeting sent the address where the flower resided. I knew it would be off the beaten path, but I had no idea that it would be off my beaten path. Turns out, this botanical wonder was in Mount Pleasant, my hometown. Though I could envision the street name in my mind, I couldn’t match it with a road, so, yes, I typed the address into my phone so I could find my way home.
Driving over, I passed the old fair grounds, the road my sophomore crush lived on, the beauty shop where I had my ears pierced, and the church where I was baptized — the church where my parents’ ashes are filed away. Hurrying to be on time, I didn’t stop. I don’t visit their gravesite often because it obliterates any fantasy that I have of them being on an extended vacation.
Onto the flower I went, slowly realizing its proximity to my parents’ house, the same house I sold last year after my father died two years and two months after my mother. Turns out, the Schweinitz sunflower flourishes a seven-minute drive from where I spent a chunk of my life.
Anyone who’s been through the death of a loved one knows the grief route involves a mixture of reflexes. At Christmas, you want to help your mom slice her red velvet cake, a recipe I still can’t seem to master. On Father’s Day, you want to buy a goofy card with a tie on it for your dad, and when something cool happens, you want to tell them. Pulling into the parking lot of the nature trail, I wanted to call my mom and dad more than ever. We probably would have met for a What-A-Burger after.
When I met my contact, we walked 15 minutes of the trail to discover that the flower that summoned me home wasn’t blooming yet. Undeterred, my tour guide suggested we go look for some more a couple of miles away, so I hopped in my Subaru to follow his Subaru. Approximately a half-mile from my old neighborhood, we discovered a Schweinitz sunflower standing as regal as a giraffe. This jewel of nature randomly sprouted beside the country road our family took to church every Sunday of my childhood.
I studied the flower, touching the sandpaper-like underbelly of its leaves and thought how brave this plant was to bloom less than a foot from the road. After the biologist left, I decided to be brave, too.
I drove through my neighborhood, past the house that holds more memories for me than any other structure on this earth, past the dock where I had my eighth birthday, past a part of my life that now rests in the past. When I was leaving, a yellow monarch fluttered across my windshield. As she always was in life, my mom was there for me, letting me know that everything was going to be okay.
On the way back, I stopped by the columbarium to fill my parents in on how everyone was doing, and near the end of my update, a calmness soaked through my soul. I finally realized that my parents are at peace, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was, too.
This post was first published on the News of Davidson website on October 3, 2023, https://newsofdavidson.org/2023/10/03/64658/g-is-for-griefand-goodness/.