The first time I met a live sunflower was in Greece. Taller than I expected, jaunty with that Van Gogh weight on its shoulder stem, gleaming against marbled ruins.
Patterns are searched in the present, perhaps to be better absorbed into the past. There is a Vietnamese joint called Sunflower, on a hill I used to live, in San Francisco. Ted and I were neighbours. We would discuss how to get microcredit to women in perilous situations, with orders we don’t have to order.
The women at Sunflower give us free dessert.
As I write, there is a party for Ted in San Francisco tonight. It’s a morning again in Greece.
I miss you morally, Ted.