In southern Hungary, the sun’s rays glow a deeper yellow to reflect upon the acres on sunflowers. July tattoos a permanent smile upon the mouth and joy in the eyes as the fields literally dance in yellow. The afternoons were hot, but inviting. I would take my bike or grandma’s bike, if that were the only available one, and start for the fields. The dust trail would swell behind me and fill my pores with its grains. I could never bathe away the scent of the country; it became an inseparable part of me. The sunflowers loomed in stately joy above me and around me. I loved to look into their faces. There was nothing around but the yellow horizon and the chirping of birds who loved sharing their flowers with appreciative onlookers.
My Hungarian sister and I would go together; even the simple life had its moments of complexity when nothing but communion with God in the sunflower fields could cure. We always returned home with full hearts bearing our secret.
When I go back in time now and reflect upon my years there, I always go to the sunflower fields; I remember them overflowing in summer between villages. It’s like my life’s sweetest times are outlined or constrained between two blurred lines of yellow on the right and left sides of me. All that was left behind is laced with sunshine and sadness.