The Sunflowers

When I was eight we had a plan to meet with the aliens. We were certain they came to the forest at the end of the road on Friday nights. The forest, which was really more like a small stand of trees, was adjacent to a field of sunflowers and that is what attracted the aliens to that spot in the first place. They came at night in blue ships with bright lights. In all of the planning to come see the aliens, we didn’t consider the conservative curfews placed on us by our parents. When it became plain to us that the plan wouldn’t work, being that it hinged on our nighttime presence in the forest, we moved on and the aliens were forgotten.

The sunflowers are what I remember best about that place. Taller than me, their heavy heads bobbed and danced in the breeze. The density and darkness of the field was a direct contrast to their name, as if their greedy flower faces sucked up all the sunshine in the world. I was scared to go in there, but it was peaceful and safe enough to walk alongside the flower field, hands lazily drifting along the stalks as we walked.

That is the interesting thing about memory I guess. Sometimes all you have is a brief snapshot imprinted on the halls of your heart. The image may stay clear, but the edges often fade. I don’t remember the names or faces of the kids I was with, or even how many there were. I don’t remember the color of the houses, or what season it was. But I remember the aliens with their blue ships, bright lights and Friday night visits. And I remember the sunflowers.

I wrote this in response to an assignment in a book called "The Artist's Way." If ever you are wanting to incite your own creativity, for anything, I can't recommend this book enough.