For six years, my son and I planted sunflowers for the twin sister he lost when they were six. Last Saturday, we stepped into the garden before sunrise and found every flower cut down except one, with a white box hanging from its stem.
My son Patrick lost his twin sister when they were six years old. Her name was Lily. If Patrick laughed, Lily laughed. If Lily cried, Patrick cried, too. Lily was the bolder one. Patrick was the one who watched for danger.
One summer afternoon, we were at my parents’ farmhouse. The twins asked if they could take stale bread down to the pond behind the back pasture to feed the ducks. I said yes.
Only Patrick came back.
He was soaked to the knees, muddy, and screaming so hard that he could barely get words out. By the time I understood Lily was gone, he was already dragging me toward the water. We found trampled reeds, cloudy water, and half a sack of bread near the bank.
