Standing in front of a field full of dandelions, I cannot help but think of you. This annoys me. There goes the sun, wandering by. Here is the world where my eyes drank you in. Here is the world where, if my eyes drink enough light, everything changes colour. Look at that cloud. I could put you in its shape. There is nothing I could point to and not find you in. Sometimes this gives me a headache. For now, yellow dots green until the grass is one big speckled fish. What are we swimming toward? I want to ask the wind. No answer but the wildflower sprouting earnestly by the trash can. Listen, Yasmin. Someday, I will stand in front of a field again. The grass will be frail — late summer — too much sun. But I will still thirst for light. So if I find even one yellow blossom peeking out of that dust, I will think, Oh — you. And it will still be you.
Sanna Wani, My Grief, the Sun













