Sunflowers of Summer

Towering sunflowers waltz as they bake in the sunshine. I’m lying on our chair. The breeze is an inferno, stifling every inhale. I won’t be able to stay out here long. My skin broiling, I feel redness seeping across it already. “Get more sunshine” everyone says. “Get Vitamin D, it will help your grief.” The rays may be increasing my D, but they’re draining my mood.

You should be here. We should be complaining about the unbearable Texas July heat together. A heat the devil himself avoids this time of year. I should be setting our timer for our baking time versus AC time. When it goes off, I should be telling you “time to go in Boo” as you defiantly scoff as if I’m robbing you of an inherent right.

As I turn over, memories dance in my mind, mimicking the swaying sunflowers we fought so hard to grow. They’re like holograms before me. I almost reach out, grab them so they pull me into their world. I can’t help but laugh at some. Like how you’d race to the door, almost knocking us both down, so I couldn’t go outside without you, then protest when I’d tell you stay inside just a little longer, it’s too hot for you. You were always on duty; even a few minutes apart, you worried if I’d have an attack you couldn’t warn me of. I’d give anything for one of those moments again.

We should be reading together. The weight of a book is too heavy now that I can’t share it with you, read it to you as I butcher all the accents I try. You were always my greatest audience, your judgmental stare my harshest critic. I’d melt into giggles over dramatic parts. I swear your eyes would roll at plot holes. My narrations definitely got better with our practice runs.

I think of all the book runs we made over the years for summer reading prizes all over the state. A smile crinkles my cheeks remembering stuffing books like Tetris blocks in the car around Houston. I didn’t realize I’d won so many, and the car was stuffed to the gills with our camping and beach gear. Bags of books wedged between the Stooges in the backseat while your floorboard was a book mountain. A chuckle escapes my lips recalling smuggling the Stooges into the library in their stroller because no one answered the curbside number. That’s where our library photos were born. From then on, every library we came across we took pictures in front of for Poodle Pages. I’d thrown off the blanket and opened the stroller to grab a quick selfie of all of us against the library logo as the elevator clanked to the second floor. You taught them well. They were quiet, still, on their best behavior so I could grab our prizes undetected with illegal smuggle-mutts in tow. It was early morning, but the Houston heat was just plain mean. How people survive there in 8,000% humidity year-round we never could understand. Visions of that morning flood my head. Stooges in their stroller, you in your bag, me trying to get us all in the selfie against the selfie box outside the main entrance, frustrated at my short arms. The guard stalking us, making sure y’all didn’t grace the precious turf. His annoyance was palpable. What a sod. The more I laughed and the happier y’all got, the more we irritated him. Fun police. As we rolled through the little park to the monuments, he was compelled to interject his two cents.

“No dogs in the kids play area,” he spat.

We were going the opposite direction from the precious play area.

“I know,” I said politely as I started forward again.

“They can’t pee on the turf.” He needed to get in one last chide.

I felt your eye roll and saw the “seriously dude,” look splash across your face. I had to snuff my snort-laugh and put my hand over your face. This guy would definitely not see the humor in your expressive nature.

“No problem, we’re here for pictures, not a pit stop,” I called over my shoulder as I pushed us off before I rolled my eyes.

On the other side, we found the book benches. They were way too cool to pass up a photo-op with. One look told me their bronze surface would be like magma. Thank goodness for our smuggling blanket and picnic blanket. I layered them and the stroller mat across the molten metal, tested my tush on them first to be safe. No burned bum or bare legs. Lining y’all up, I snapped our Book Babies pictures before the joy patrol sensed our fun.

On our way out, we saw the statues of children reading with their dog. Your eyes caught mine, we had the same thought, Book Babies belong in that tableau. Positioning y’all in your album cover poses, we spent way too much time enjoying those statues. Maggie was scared of the little bronze dog, wondering why he was so still. When his shadow overcast your dramatic profile pose, your look of disdain had my side hurting I laughed so hard. Your eyes were pure annoyance, how dare he crowd your picture. Didn’t he know who you were? I’d been glad in that moment no one answered parking garage curbside. If we hadn’t smuggled inside and come out the main entrance to see the statues, we would’ve been cheated a fun morning. I wouldn’t have those moments in my memory bank now. We packed up ready to head to the beach for the rest of the day after one more book stop. As we rounded the corner to the parking garage, the sour-puss guard passed us. His mood even more curdled. It must’ve been because of the 8,000% humidity.

Memories of Beach Babies adventures fill my heart now like beach sand filling an hourglass. My insides break thinking how our together-sand has run out. How we’ll never hunt for shells again, watch Maggie chase crabs in the moonlight, watch Brosie panic as the waves hurl into his stubby legs, hear Esi growl at seagulls eyeballing her beach snacks together. How we’ll never take our solo walks along the water’s edge. You wanting to dive in, me cringing at the thought of jellyfish stings.

Simultaneously though, my heart beats a soothing rhythm thinking of our secret New Year’s Eve champagne on our beach blanket, you pulling a piece of driftwood five times your size from the waves, and our quiet sunset moments just listening to time crash into the shore.

I smile through more salty cheek-rivulets as my eyes drift closed to the clink of your collar tags and your excited pants and grunts as the mirage of you running across the sand at lightyear speed in Monterey plays on a loop. After spending the day racing along the deserted beach, we rode with a hulking gargoyle Uber driver to the pier. I don’t think his facial muscles moved a hairs-breadth the entire ride. It was eerie. We jumped out before he’d completely stopped, partially in excitement, partially in escape. The towering sun made sweat trickle down my back and made your blue hair alternate between hues of blue, brown, black and purple. At the end of the pier, you nudged me to a patio restaurant. Determined to make me eat before my sugar dropped lower, you picked the one place with a “pooch menu.” You conspired with the waiter to have your plate served on a free frisbee. It never failed. Everywhere you went, you had an instant fan club. Everyone gave you freebies, compliments, and extra love. You created that environment and no one could resist your charms. We listened to the water lapping the pier beams as the sun kissed the horizon. That evening, we strolled through the foamy waves as the sun fell asleep. The sound of the peaceful water in that reverie is interrupted with flashes of chaotic splashing.

We should be wishing we had a pool to live in all summer; sending your dad texts with all the reasons why it’s a necessity not a luxury. Sending him pictures of the sad puppy pool me, you, and Finley would squish into with the Stooges until I’d break down and fill another one just for them. Ours the imagined vacation resort, theirs the rowdy water park. Clowns in one, intellectuals in the other. Our teams. Your sighs reverberate through my head as I picture the Stooges splashing and wrestling like over-caffeinated mongrels while you and Finley lounge peacefully in your pool like influencers poised for a photoshoot.

This sparks another memory. Our funny selfies and reason number…what were we on? Number 754? All our reasons why we needed a camper so you could be a wanderlust traveler. We did have some very convincing reasons. I think so, anyways. We made a hell of a sales pitch team didn’t we? What a case we presented for a camper. My heart seizes at the realization of memories that will never be, adventures never had, roads never taken. Tears spill down my cheeks, boiling saltwater against a flushed plain. I wipe them away, focus my hazy eyes on the sunflowers blissfully soaking up the sun, and reach quickly for another memory.

The breeze has picked up, the towering plants performing a stationary tango in its dramatic cadence. I recall a late summer dove hunt. Our last one. The sun was angry that day. I do believe its goal was to cook us. The heat index must have been 6,000 degrees. It was unholy hot. We waded through the sunflower field, each wondering why we’d agreed to go. You were hyper-focused on my temperature and pain. I was focused on watching out for bees and rattlers. Our faces mirrored one another— “Birds. What birds? They said screw this, it’s too hot today.” We were just about to throw in the towel when a bevy of fat, little feather dusters soared sunward. We had the advantage over your dad and Mark. You retrieved them so my eyes could stay skyward. We limited out and spent the rest of the afternoon basking in the truck’s AC while everyone else sweated, traipsing around the field. Your duck hunting genes shone like a neon sign that day. The disappointment we both felt once we cleaned the birds and cooked them makes me laugh. The bacon was bigger than the “breasts.” We vowed the meat-to-heat payoff wasn’t worth doing that again. Fair weather hunters were we.

Snippets of hunting trips, both heat-fueled and frozen eyelash varieties, scroll through my mind. Our best hunting trips weren’t actually traditional hunting trips at all. They were our Sasquatch hunting adventures in the state parks. You loved all things Sasquatch. Your mind was blown your last birthday when you saw the giant Sasquatch toy next to your cake. I thought you would implode from the excitement. We indulged our imaginations on those hiking trips. Always scouting the trees for glimpses of your hairy, musk-riddled nemesis. I remember a stuffy old man scoffing at our “Gone ‘Squatchin’” camp theme.

“What’s the stakes? What happens when he catches him? You can’t just have it be about the hunt,” he’d mocked.

We exchanged a glance; I even caught the Stooges’ contempt for the man’s frivolity and derision. Another fun-hater.

“The fun is in the hunt,” I’d simply replied as we took off down the trail, me calling out “’Squatchin’ time puppies!” as the stooges clambered around, tails wagging, tongues out and you went into tracker mode, nose down, eyes scanning the trees like a periscope. You took your ‘Squatchin’ duties seriously.

We trekked countless miles through parks smelly-beast-hunting. At Fort Boggy, you just knew he’d be deep in the bog marsh. If the humidity that day hadn’t been suffocating, we’d have scoured that bog. That park was deceiving in the late summer twilight. It looked so cool, whimsical, breezy with its towering pines deep in the valley. When we got out of the icy capsule of the car, we all struggled to breathe. If the humidity had been visible, it would’ve looked like stone blocks pressing us like a compactor. One quick loop to the dock was enough. Family vote. Back to the reprieve of the blowing arctic AC. We’d wished for the cool waters of the San Marcos river then. The glittering lake around the park was enticing, until we remembered the BEWARE OF ALLIGATORS signs every 5 feet.

As the sunflowers slow-dance in the fading afternoon light, I’m lulled by their rhythmic sway and picture us bobbing gently on our tube as we float atop the grass-filled crystal water of the river. We tackled a lot of rivers together. From rapids to lullaby-lazy waters, in tubes, in kayaks, in canoes, on floaties, and chairs sunken amongst the rocks. You loved the river. You were a river rat through and through. You lived for summer days spent on the river and riding the sticky-seated rickety bus back to the launch to go again before we ended the day at Valentino’s Pizza. Again, you’d shmooze the cooks into making you a little personal pizza. Your body buzzed with electricity as we exited the highway on the familiar river route, almost buckling your lifejacket yourself. I laugh through a sob remembering how we’d have to tether you to the car while we put on sunscreen and packed the waterbag, just to keep you from leaving us behind. The one float where we were taking too long to get at the steps flashes before me now. You decided we were too far back in the line of tube-goers. You tried to cut the line by getting into someone’s tub laying off to the side. You pitiful “woe is me” look had everyone rolling. Peels of laughter resounded through the park. The frat guys in front of us bowed to you and said, “by all mean, Sir, Your Majesty, please don’t let us hold you up.” When they found out your name was Sir Didymus and you were affectionately called the king, they bowed again and helped us into the water. That whole float strangers kept hollering “Hi Your Majesty Didymus” to us. You propped up on the tube in complete regalness. Your demeanor oozing “finally, I’m among my people. This is the life I was meant to live.”

Your first river float springs to mind. You were so young, so tiny. I’d got us pushed over to the ladder to exit before the rapids. We’d wait for our motely crew to descend them at the picnic area. You watched everyone go down, body taut, tail wagging, your very essence vibrating with longing and adventure. You watched the rapids from the bus window as we bounced along the road to relaunch. The second time we went down the river, at the cut off for the rapids, you nudged my arm and pulled at the tube. You wanted to go down. You were like a Christmas morning toddler, thrumming with eagerness and unadulterated glee. I was a nervous wreck. The worst I’d lost on the rapids was a shoe. Oh how many shoes would float by us on those white, foamy monsters. My heart was thunderstorm in my throat as I squeezed you against me and prayed we wouldn’t flip. Your lifejacket tethered to mine, we slide down the natural slide. Water splashing our faces, your tail a jackhammer in my ribs, your tongue loose like lolling idiot. Your face at the bottom was pure joy and pure mockery of me. In my mind, those small rapids were like northern whitewaters. In reality, it was about five feet of baby ripples over smooth cool rock. From that moment on, we never could get out at the sissy ladder again. It was rapids or go broke. I’d give anything for those lazy river floats again. For those sunburned thighs that had a perfect white etching of you in the middle. For paw-sized bleached dots across otherwise perfectly bronzed skin. I’d give anything to see you bulked up in your lime green lifejacket, sitting on the console, ready for the river to break the windshield view and you jumping up, happy-dancing for river float.

Sweat has commingled with my tears, of both blissful reflection and heavy sorrow. The sunflowers seem to float in cadence with the lingering memories of the tranquil river flow in the hot breeze. They seem to say, “When you need happy memories to balance the weight of the pain, we’ll be here.” I vow to let the sunflowers grow, even if they grow taller than the fence. Let them tower over our chair to remind me of our sunflowers of summer, our dearest memories.

Dedicated In Memory Of

The bravest King I ever knew. The Perfect King.

Who lived virtuously, courageously, and loved truly unconditionally.

Whose servant’s heart destined him for medical service.

My soulmate.

He was love in its purest form.

An unmatched Sasquatch hunter.

My sunshine is blue.

For love of Poodle

Love is being owned by a Poodle,

Especially one named Ditto.

His story is the greatest ever told.

Based on my service dog, Sir Didymus Ditto Mehaffey whom Heaven reclaimed April 28, 2026 following a battle with CKD and a brainstem tumor after more than fourteen years of dedication. A five-pound blue Toy Poodle, he was small in stature, but possessed a heart, soul, devotion, attitude, courage and ego that were larger than life, larger than words.

This story is based on many summer memories.

Until we meet on the trail again, Boosie, keep ‘Squatchin’.

I love you Ditto Bear.