Page 55 of Something Like Sunflowers

“If she won’t stay on the eggs, you know, you can try letting one of the silkies sit on them instead,” I say, creeping up from the side of the coop. She turns to me and narrows her eyes, probably because I’m a stranger. Smart kid. But she inclines her head, waiting to hear more, so I go on, moving a few steps closer so I can take a look at the nesting boxes, too.

And take a closer look at her.

There are eight eggs in the box she just shoved the bird she calls Penelope into, and there’s another hen in there beside her laying on her own eggs. Scanning my memories, I think this one is a barbed rock, because it’s got those beautiful pencil-etching marks over its wings. The barbed rock is in the box beside Penelope, and she seems content where she is. She has no plans of moving off her eggs anytime soon.

I watch the little girl scrape her bright blue eyes over the other bird, then puff her bottom lip out in a decisive frown. It’s obvious she’s wondering why the one bird will do what she’s supposed to, but the other won’t.

A familiar anxiety tenses inside me.

You can’t make any living thing bend against their will. She’s lucky she’s too young to have learned that.

“Why silkies?”

I smile as I see her defenses against me drop a little. Seems she keeps her walls secure, too.

“They are amazing mamas,” I tell her, picking up a furry black hen and running my hand down its back. The hen purrs, and I close my eyes, taking in the warmth the creature offers back to me. The chickens always were my favorite. “They almost always adopt the eggs if you give them a chance. I’ve even seen silkie hens raise a duck before.”

She sputters with laughter and complete wonder. “A duck? There’s no way! We have ducks…maybe I can convince Papa to let me try it.” She picks up another furry hen and holds it above her head, inspecting it, before turning back to me with a grin that’s a mix of half grown, half baby teeth. “Whatta ya reckon we’d call a duck baby raised by a chicken?”

“Hmm.” I tap my finger to my chin. “What about Chuck?”

“Chicken duck! I like it!” Out of nowhere, she widens her eyes like she’s just had the best idea ever. “Tag! You’re it!” she shouts, taking off toward the cattle.

“Wait!” I shout back, unable to stop the laughter pouring from my soul as I chase her through the wheat with my toes covered in mud and my hair wild and free, flowing like hers.

No, flowing like mine.

Like it used to. And with the wind against my skin and the tickles of blonde tendrils hitting my face as I run through the field with wild abandon, I sense how dead I’ve been inside. And how alive I feel right now.

“Wait up! You never told me your name!”

“Catch me, and I’ll tell youuuuu,” she screams, turning to look at me briefly before darting to the side with a quick tuck and roll. With practiced moves, I watch her bounce onto a mini trampoline, using one hand to hoist herself over the fence, and then landing on her feet like a total badass.

I think back to a time long ago, when a boy not much older than this child in front of me jumped over fences and let his scrappy, reddish-blondish hair fly through the breeze, and my heart stills.

I come to a stop at the fence, threading my fingers through the chain-links of the metal and pressing my face to the side while I take in deep breaths. I haven’t run that fast in years, but the running isn’t what has me breathless…it’s her. I tried to convince myself it can’t be, but…her spunk, her farming skills, her hair.

And those blue eyes.

I think back to our conversation just a few minutes earlier.

‘Maybe I can convince Papa to let me try it.’

Papa.

“Wait!” I shout as she slings a knobby-kneed leg over the side of a massive stallion and gets ready to take off to who knows where, covered in dirt with pine stuck in her hair.

“What’s your name? Your name!”

I probably seem like a crazy woman. A strange lady in last night’s clothes, strolling onto her farm and demanding personal information. But there are just too many coincidences for me to ignore.

I have to know.

“Your name! What is it?”

She squints, assessing me. Her horse rears back on two legs, letting out a whinny, ready for whatever adventure she’s about to take him on. And I watch closely then, as the little girl I’ve just met, the one with the deep blue eyes that match those of my dreams, clutches the horse’s mane and brings him down on all fours again with expert precision.

Precision you only learn if you’re raised by a real-life cowboy.

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