There's a row of sunflowers in my backyard right outside my parents' window.

My mother planted them because they were her favorite flower, and we saw them all the time.

In a little house, off Lemon Avenue in Southern California,

with a basketball hoop in the front and fruit trees in the back.

Granted, time has a way of altering our memories, and I'm sure to some extent my reminiscing has been dramatized.

But I can't help when I look back at that period of time to feel anything but good.

Like pure happiness, simplicity.

Coming back from the pool, laying out in the sun with my brother and sister,

or, you know, creating forts out of lawn chairs

while we launched peaches, plums, and lemons at each other

like complete idiots.

You know, having life-altering conversations,

critical discussions.

Like, who's the most important character in Star Wars?

And, you know, that scene in Titanic.

The side door of the garage I used to sneak in the slim, shady LP,

I got caught.

I don't know what it was, but all of that was right.

And when I think of that row of sunflowers, slowly swaying in the breeze beneath the California sun,

my mind often wonders if that's gone forever.

I don't want to entertain the thought, but I can't help but ask.

You know, my pragmatic brain doesn't even know what it is.

...