Where The Sunflowers Grow

I let out a big sigh and basked in silence for a few moments before I plopped onto the bare, new mattress on the bare, new floor of my bare, new home. Then, I looked over to the floor where my Dad’s black notebook was, reached over, and opened it to the page reserved by the white bookmark.

Saturday, March 20, 2028

4:40am

Episteme was born at 2:25am after 7 hours of labor. She was so tiny and quiet when I held her—fell asleep almost the moment she was placed in my arms.

She has Arline’s chin: oval shaped with a small, cute dimple. She also has Arline’s deep, brown hair and eyes. She has my nose; although, it is a bit shorter.”

My Dad was always interested in physics and found funny ways to teach me about the world. On my 5th birthday, I’d automatically run upstairs to the crook of the window the moment I heard a train whistle. Dad, soon to meet me there, would sit and watch the pond in our backyard. Soon, we’d see the reflection of the train and I’d start counting each box car. I wasn’t very good at first and, to get me to try harder, he agreed to buy me ice cream every time I’d make it to 100. Pretty soon after that, I counted the boxcars to 100 three times in one day! Mom wasn’t happy about Dad and I’s little agreement after that.

He bought me a children’s sciencebook on my 5th birthday and we worked through it all summer. But, he would get so frustrated with it every time we read it because it never explained things well or why things happened. It just said stuff such as “paper falls slower because of air”. That’s it. And, I remember that specific line so well because he said it, sarcastically, about 10 times at the park before throwing in the public trash bin. Then, he took off one of his shoes and told me to "just... watch". He dropped it over and over again. Although, at this point, I was watching the looks of strangers staring at my father like he lost his mind. Then, he paced around for a few moments, picked up a bird's feather, and dropped it. This time, I was fascinated as I watched the feather twist and sway side to side like something was controlling it.

“Do you see the difference?”

“Yeah… why doesn’t fall like your shoe did?”

You'd think he would have taken this moment—as I was completely in awe—to teach me about the wonderful workings of friction. Nope.

“Ghosts!”

My eyes widened and he chuckled as always after he gets in one of his good pranks.

I ran, cried, and screamed at the top of my lungs. Then, hid in the car and would not come out for several minutes. Now, people really thought my Dad was coocoo.

“Episteme. I’m just having fun, okay? It’s not ghosts”

Then, he went on to teach me about air and why the feather fell so gracefully compared to the shoe by doing things such as blowing on it.

Being the excited, little show-off I was, I’d brag these facts at the playground during my first day of kindergarten. One boy, Richard, didn’t like it. Him and his friends said I was making it up. Then, for the rest of the day, they sang “crazy episteme! Crazy episteme!” until I cried. My mom kept asking me why I was crying on the way home and I didn’t speak. I felt so embarrassed with myself.

After getting home, my Dad came in with my favorite treat: a graham cracker with peanut butter and marshmallow cream on top. He asked me why I was crying and I told him that Richard made fun of me, called me crazy for talking about friction, and how dumb I thought he was. Dad held my hand and we walked outside. He picked a single, white rose from the garden and gave it to me.

“This rose has no color. It’s just white. People are a lot like this white rose when they’re very young. They don’t know very much. You’re like this red rose because you know something they don’t and that makes you different. Sometimes, people don’t understand this until they become red roses themselves. But, that doesn’t make you crazy nor does it make him dumb. Maybe, Richard is a yellow rose?” He took my other hand and placed a feather in it. Then, he continued: “Maybe if you teach him something, he’ll teach you something?”

The next day, Richard and I sat in the classroom while the rest of the class was at recess. We both apologized for calling each other names. Then, I took off one of my shoes and dropped it like my Dad did. Then, did the same with the feather before explaining friction to him. Richard loved it and we became good friends after that.

About a month into school, I’d wake up throughout the night to what sounded like crying. One night, I creeped downstairs and saw Dad at the bathroom toilet puking as Mom stroked his shoulder for comfort. But, I remember that this was the first time I knew something wasn’t quite right. Dad didn’t quite make it to the toilet at the start; behind him, was a trail of red puke.

Less and less, mom quit taking me home after school. Instead, we drove to the hospital to see Dad during his treatments. She never told me what was really wrong. She just said he was a sick. One time, I asked when he would get better. She answered me not with words, but with silence coupled with a tear rolling down her cheek.

One day, I watched Dad as he sat in his hospital bed writing in his little black notebook—as always.

"Dad?"

"Yeess?" he said reciprocating my inflection.

"Why do you always carry that silly notebook around what you can write on your tablet?" I asked.

He paused for a moment. Then, he said as he, still, looked down at his notebook, "There's so much more to a story than words alone. What's said, and will be said, is in the distance between the words".

He looked up at me and paused briefly and smiled... then, he continued

"That's what special about the notebook in my hand; it has a life, story, and personality of its own. That simply cannot be if it were on a screen, Episteme."

I was confused about what he meant. He sometimes found it difficult to explain things to me. Mom said it was because he was never around children that much (unfortunately, he couldn't be around me that much either). But, through this notebook, I learned more about my father and, at times, felt like he was there for me through his writing. Holding the pages he once held, looking at his hand writing, and doodling in the notebook allowed me to connect and learn so much more about my Dad. I even have passages torn from the notebook that I keep in my purse. I read them from time to time to remind me what's important.

Sometimes, Mom would tell me to go play in the hospital’s courtyard while her and Dad talked alone. One day, I saw a patch of sunflowers. I thought about how happy Dad would be if I gave him one—remind him how the sun would rise again. After picking my favorite one, I walked over the elevator to go up to his floor. Almost immediately after the elevator door opened, mom ran out the stairwell and hugged me—shaking and sobbing hysterically; I’ve never seen anyone cry the way she did that day.

She picked up me, shaking, and took me up to see my father—one last time.

After Dad’s funeral, Mom gave me his little black notebook. In it was things he always wanted to teach me and talk to me about. That's right. He wrote in it all the time to teach me things he wouldn't be alive to tell me. There were 22 of them: each one having a number corresponding to my age. For an example, the 16th one talked all about driving, high school relationships, parties, and warning me about the wrong crowds. But, after graduating college, I quit getting these notebooks. Instead, I was given $20,000 to spend “as I see fit”. With it, I published a book as well as many of my father’s messages to help other parentless children.

I studied the last page of the notebook one more time. It read:

"I will always be in your heart"

Then, before drifting off, I gave Richard a kiss goodnight .