Then I think about you and how your dedication might make you feel all of those things without anyone taking the time to notice.
I guess, if you are feeling any of those emotions, maybe take my letter with you on a ride and watch the sunset bathe your beautiful land. Experience a moment that can’t be stolen or replicated or lost.
And then get some sleep because there will be more to feel tomorrow.
I hope tomorrow is more good feelings than bad. For both of us.
My thumb rubs over the sunflower sticker at the bottom of the page. It’s what she uses in place of a signature, and I have no idea what it means. Does it mean anything?
Is it a sign, something I should be looking for? I can’t remember the last time I came across a sunflower other than at the bottom of these letters.
They’ve been coming for almost a year. There’s no pattern. Sometimes I get one a week for a month and then I might not get one for two months.
But they always seem to show up when I need them the most. And when I least expect them.
At first it made me a little uncomfortable, making me feel like I was being watched.
Now I find them comforting.
I’m also incredibly curious about who it is. They don’t share a lot of details, but I know it’s a woman. Not only is the handwriting a dead giveaway, but there’s something sweet in her writing that makes me feel like it’s not a guy. I don’t think a guy would send me anonymous letters signed with a sunflower sticker.
Maybe I’m wrong.
Ever since the first letter arrived, I’ve been walking around Seneca Falls with my head on a swivel. I’m always looking for some sort of clue. Honestly, part of me expects for my letter writer to jump out from around a corner and shout, “Surprise! It’s me.”
I’m constantly wondering if I’m talking to my Sunflower. She could be anyone. Maybe. I hope not just anyone. The last thing I need is some middle schooler with a crush on me. But I don’t think it’s the case.
There’s something about the way this woman writes. I don’t think she’s a kid and in school still, but I don’t think she’s older than me either. What the hell do I know, I’m only 25, almost 26. Once Valentine’s Day rolls around, I’ll be celebrating another birthday.
The only thing I’m looking forward to when it comes to my birthday is the possibility of getting a letter from my Sunflower. She’s the only one who wished me well, or even acknowledged my birthday last year. I’d love to say it was because of Valentine’s Day that people forgot. But I know the truth.
No one gives a fuck.
I don’t have people in my corner. Not anymore. Sure, I used to, but then Dad died and everything except for Sagebrush Ranch, which has been in my family for generations, fell apart.Maybe I should find solace in the fact that the ranch still operates, and I’ve been able to make improvements and grow the business.
Somehow, when I’m all alone in the giant house on the land with only ranch hands who see me as a boss and not much else, it’s not easy to take solace in the success of the ranch.
The ranch was founded by my family, and it has remained in the hands of the Conners family ever since. It’s my fucking legacy.
Legacy. Fuck.
Legacies are hard and the mantle of them is rarely given in the way we want, in the way we think we can handle.
My Sunflower wrote that in her first letter to me, the one celebrating my birth when it felt like everyone who was supposed to care had forgotten. Except for a stranger, at least to me, who went out of their way to recognize the day.
Ever since I read those words, I’ve been trying to come to grips with the legacy wrapped around me. No one ever asked if I wanted the burden of it or if I was strong enough to carry the weight.
Once Dad died, it just seemed expected of me. Sometimes I have to wonder if he knew his time was up because he had been methodically preparing me to take over for a while. Back then it was like I could still hear his voice telling me about how important the land is, how our family has thrived on it and protected it as repayment.
How did my Sunflower know I was struggling with my legacy a year ago while I stared down another birthday? She spoke about it like her own legacy is sometimes suffocating, and scary.There have been so many times I wished I could write her back; tell her how I understand the expectations of it all feeling like fear.
But I can’t.
Because there’s no return address on the letters when they arrive. I’ve been tempted to make a copy of the letters to use them like wanted posters. Someone would recognize the handwriting or some of the turns of phrase, right?
I never follow through because I’m not willing to share these letters with anyone. They feel special, sacred almost.
What if I tried to track down who it is and then the letters stopped? I think it’s what I fear the most. The letters stopping.
