We brought you some sunflowers, so you can remember us.
I love their bright little faces, their beady centers like a thousand earthy eyes; the rays of schoolbus-yellow radiating out, little suns on stems we pull out of a big, wet bucket at the Yamanaka flower store just for you.
I remember fields and fields of these, walking forever beside you and trying to fill your footsteps. I remember chasing Frisbees and walking on my hands, laughing and sobbing, aching and talking, just talking to you about every trouble I've ever had, trying to decide if it was worth being concerned with. I remember looking at our reflections in a puddle, and blossoming warm from head to toe when I realized that I look a little bit like you (in the eyebrows). I remember the long, hot days spent locked in training and fighting for our lives, and then the cool caress of sunflower leaves against my sweaty skin as we fled, laughing, from our fears. It was our world, in that perfumed field that sprung alive with tiny purple sage in the spring, sunflowers in the summer, and small green things in the winter of my downheartedness. I brought you sunflowers, so you can recall those sweet times and remember how much we all miss you, Sensei.
We miss you so much. Me and the field, me and the sunflowers.