Sun Stealing

or "Gogh-ing....Gogh-ing...Gone!"



So we are heading home from a short night out, when I spot what appears to be at least 50 sunflowers growing in a yard. I come to a quick halt and stop to admire them. Sunflowers have always been my favorite flower and seeing this many growing in our desert town is enough to make me hold my breath and pause. I look over all of the different stems holding various sized flowers. Many of stems are as tall as me. (Not that my height is hard to equal, but I am just painting a picture here.)


I can't remember when I first fell in love with sunflowers, it just has always been that way. I have tried, sometimes successfully, to grow both usual and unusual varieties. I never knew that they could come in such different colors, sizes, and even the amount of petals they could have. I am like Van Gogh obsessed with them, except I am lacking in the artistic drawing ability part that he had. Strangely enough, I also have a fondness for Van Gogh, although it is hard to say which came first. The Van Gogh or the Sunflower?

"Wow!" I say aloud to both Paul and Will, "Aren't those sunflowers amazing!". I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and both of them had to stop as well behind me. They were looking over my shoulder, checking out what caused the commotion.

"They are alright, " says Will, giving them the side eye clearly not impressed. I could sense contempt and boredom in the tone of his voice. "You know, sunflowers get much bigger than that hunny," he adds, I think giving a dirty look to one of the more modest stalks.

"Yeah, that's true." confirms Paul looking over the green and yellow, equally unimpressed.

"What!?!" I stammered, "I love sunflowers!" Then, as if to prove my proclamations of love, my hand reached out and plucked the first available flower it could reach. I could scarcely believe my own fingers, so nimble and adroit. And while I would never condone thievery of any sort, this was a different matter altogether. It was a matter of love.

I held my new prize close to my chest and placed it carefully in the cup holder for the ride home. We walked in the door and I gently layed it on the counter. I reached for the closest vase, which was clear glass and probably more apt to hold two dozen roses than one lonely and displaced sunflower. I began to fill it with water.

"Wait a second." said Paul from the bedroom, I could hear him rummaging through some boxes. "Ahh...here it is." he says and displays in his hand a sleek obelisque type glass vase. Near the rim of the vase is the letter 'B' etched in frosted glass.

"It reminds me of my mom." he says and hands the vase to me. I look down at the other vase, bulky and gawky and half-way filled with water.

"Oh," I say, "that will work." I pour the water down the drain slyly hoping no one noticed that I was going to place the single flower in such a ill equipped vase.

Paul trims the stalk and arranges the single flower like the gold that I think it is. He is a master at work when it comes to dealing with flowers. When he is done, I sit back and admire it. My prize from our shady sunflower heist. Not a bad night at all.