excerpt from the piece “The Taste of Sun” from The Taste of Sun
Years ago, as my girlhood bloomed, I felt spring grow taller with me. I felt the red blossom tree my dad planted and named after me pave its way through the concrete. Its essence was bold and dynamic, just like me, my dad would tell me. I loved it—loved how he made me feel seen, loved how words would balloon as seeds in my belly—balloon into exuberant flowers abloom. My thoughts were treated as boisterous vivacious flowers to be received.
My sister and I were flooded with affection and left with so much love that we felt bound to bringing love to others. Love for everyone equitably—especially the wilted leaves and forgotten seeds, the unarmed and the misunderstood—is my father’s legacy.
My sister and I were loved in such an unconditional way that we came to reject all love that came with conditions, all conjurors disguised as love.