Until I turned eight, I woke to the sight of millions of sunflowers swaying and bowing to one another in the fields that surrounded our house. I honestly believed that my parents had done something truly wonderful to be afforded the privilege of living in this wonderland of color.
Each morning I would rush through my morning chores so I could grab a peanut butter and banana sandwich and my dog, Pepper, and head out into the vast green and gold ocean, my mother shouting the same warning not to get myself lost or wander into a field where Daddy was working with his dinosaur-like machinery. She needn’t have worried. No matter how far I’d wander, how deep into the sunflowers I’d bury myself, Pepper always knew exactly which way her food bowl sat.
When I got hungry or bored or realized the sun had reached the point in the sky where Mama’s voice started to inch up into the next octave as she called for me, I’d just shout, “Pepper! Home!” and off she’d go.
12/6/17 prompt: “raised on promises”