Sunflowers for Sana

Sunflowers for Sana Before leaving Chicago, I planted sunflower seeds in our garden. It was late in the season—far too late, really—but I did it anyway. The seeds were a gift from close friends who had visited us recently. They had remembered something I’d once said: that sunflowers remind me of Sana. And so, despite the timing, I planted them, hoping that they would grow. A small gesture, a quiet wish—for something beautiful to bloom in her memory. It’s been a week, and already they’ve sprouted. Not just one or two, but many. It feels like the universe responded. Like my silent wish was gently heard and answered. Coming to India this summer was my way of stepping away from the unrelenting rhythm of life in Chicago. I wanted space to rest, to heal, to be in a place that has always been home. And in many ways, being back has brought comfort. Being with my mother is especially soothing. She doesn’t know about Sana, and I thought that would make things easier—that I could rest without having to relive the loss through conversations. But somehow, almost instinctively, she asks about Sana every day. As though, deep down, she senses something is missing. This week, there’s a wedding in the family—one I know Sana would have attended. My cousins son who is getting married are ones she grew up with, cousins she would have laughed with, danced with, stayed up late with during every family visit. It’s hard to imagine these celebrations without her. She would have been here—off from school, flying in with that familiar excitement. Just yesterday, my nephew shared videos of Maahir and Sana from when they were young. We spent a large part of our trip at my sister's place in Mumbai, and both my kids were extremely fond of my nephew. In all the videos, Maahir is being his silly self, jumping around, while Sana is calmly sitting, engrossed in a book. Maahir playfully bothers her, but she patiently allows him, sometimes even letting him pull her into his delightful madness. She truly was a patient big sister, always looking out for her brother. Maahir is all energy—jumping, clowning. Every now and then, Maahir tries to pull her into his chaos, and she allows it. Patient, calm, quietly amused. That was her. A big sister who never stopped looking out for her little brother. Recently, Maahir told me that his colleagues often talk about their siblings, and in those moments, he feels her absence even more. The kind of loss that isn’t always spoken, but is deeply felt. Grief is not linear. It doesn’t disappear just because we change locations or surround ourselves with people who love us. But sometimes, in small ways—in the sprouting of sunflowers, in an old video clip, in a quiet moment with my mother—it makes its presence known gently, as if to say: *I’m here, and I always will be.* And so is she.