Girasol
My name is Baptista, not spoken out loud, but whispered like the end of a
prayer. I live out where the trees vanish and the high grass dances to the beat
of the wind. This is our second move since spring. Mama says this place is better
than the others, but I feel doubtful as I look across the horizon and see nothing
but muted shades of blue, white, and brown.
I am watching my tios, Carlos and Juan, pull weeds from my mother’s small,
but beautiful garden on the side of the house. I crouch to look closer at the
uprooted weeds behind them.
“Qué míras pequeña girasol?” my uncle Carlos
says. I pause as I try to interpret with my rusty Spanish.
“What does ‘girasol’ mean?” I asked standing up as I
shade my eyes from the sun.
“They are those,” he said pointing to a row of tall, yellow flowers
that looked gangly and uncertain like those older boys I see standing outside
of the bodegas.
“Sunflowers are ugly,” I said frowning.
Uncle Carlos turned around and put his arm around my shoulders. “You
should not look so deeply into its appearances. Girasols are stronger than they
look. And they will one day be fruitful, just like you will one day be fruitful,”
he said.
I looked up at the sunflowers and then down at the flowers around them. They
seem battered, but not beaten as they stretched towards the sun against all
odds. I turned towards my uncle and hugged him.
“Are you fruitful?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t pull out all my weeds.”
~fin~