If you grew up where I grew up, the sunflower isn't a flower. It's a symbol. It's the Kansas state flower, sure, but it's also summer, and harvest, and the grit of a farmer. It's the gold edge of a field ready for harvest. It's the dust haze that rises off a white rock road in the afternoon heat. It's the smell of the wind. For me, it's also family. I had the kind of childhood that some city kids would have thought was deprivation, and honestly at times I felt that way too. No mall, no McDonald's, no pool parties with friends and neighbors. What I had instead was horses, cows, goats, chickens, bunnies, and a very old donkey named Jenny. (Jenny deserves her own essay one of these days.) The days were slow, and quiet, and hot, and windy. The life lessons came in through a haze of dust kicked up on country roads, on the way home from somewhere or other. And I did not get through any of it alone. I had sisters. That's the part of the sunflower I love most, looking at this one. Sunflowers grow in groups, all turning the same direction together, like they've made a pact about which way the sun is supposed to come up. That's what sisters are. Sometimes annoying, frequently in your business, definitely louder than you'd choose, but turned the same way you are, when it counts. A row of bright, familiar faces saying okay, we're doing this, together. I think about that when I see a sunflower. The laughter. The endless games. The promise that someone's ear was always close enough to hear whatever ridiculous dream of mine was that summer's. The way you didn't have to explain anything to a sister because she'd been standing right next to you the whole time. I didn't realize how lucky I was then. Not in a 'we had so much' way - we didn't, our roots were humble. But in the way that mattered. I had large yellow flowers in the field, bright stars in the dark night's sky, sisters in the kitchen, and a slow wind through everything. That was my wealth. I just didn't know to call it that.