Sunflower in continual bloom

Sunflowers catch the morning light as our little dog shakes himself from underneath the duvet, waking to the sound of my alarm, ready to feast.

Weeks ago you gave yourself a mission: building a community event for your kids. You armed them all with disposable cameras attached to think ropes of yarn and set them lose, knowing, intuitively that kids are smart and curious and full of passion for the world around them.

What they brought back was remarkable: faded dim-exposed pictures highlighting the silent joys of their new world. Pictures of faces and blurry flowers sprouting from the earth, canopies of trees with speckled light, and their teachers positioned high above them, perched and watching.

I always marvel at the gentleness it takes to do what you do. In a world that prioritizes strength and domination, big money and abruptness you posit an opposite: soft guidance and redirection, security in failure, comfort in observing the strange newness of all things.

At your work events I watch through teary eyes as you bend down to greet each kid on their level. You never approach too fast or demand love or affection. You treat them with grace and agency, reminding everyone around that these are not extensions of their parents, but breathing flesh and bundled muscle growing all the time.

At home our dog awaits your return: snuggling on the sofa or laying, face down, facing the window. He knows the time of your arrival home and the intention of my words when I tell him I "have to pick up your father," he gives little yelps of joy for both of his soon-to-come treats.

It's your eight last day of school and, according to you, the hardest one yet. But I marvel at your growth. How you have steadily climbed towards the sun, building sturdy stalk, sheltering leaves of soft green, and bright yellow petals of your self that stretch out, reaching for the sun.

Soon, the harsh heat of summer will overtake the lush blossom of spring. You too will be replaced or perhaps transformed. Another year will come. Another fall. Another winter. Another school year and it's ultimate conclusion. A ninth and then a tenth. Late at night you tell me not to quote you on it, but that you can see how people make it twelve or twenty years in the classroom. But, I will always quote you on it. It is the truest part about you: the sunflower in continual bloom.