Sunflower

            My mother grew a sunflower. After it was grown in our garden, she moved it inside, and set it in the windowsill to show it off in the light. Every day it slowly turned it's way into the sun, and every morning, she would turn the pot around so it looked the right way. Every day it turned back. Turned away from where she put it. Where she thought it should be. Over time the sunflower wilted, and when it dies, she was sad. She Cried, exclaiming how she didn't know why it dies. She loved that sunflower so much. She worked so hard on it. It was hers, but it went and died on her, started looking ugly and wilting instead of being perfect and pretty. Everyone listened, knowing it was her. The flower was murdered, and didn't just die. It needed to look at the sun, but she never let it, always pulling it away.





            I am the sunflower.