Someone once told me that if you give sunflowers to another person, you should always give two.
By day, they turn together towards the sun. At night, when the sun is gone, they turn towards one another.
They become each other’s light.
The Chicken Came First
Katherine found the place.
One day in February 2026 she took me to Franklin Farm at Waimauku, northwest of Auckland. The houses thinned on the way out of the city. Open farmland took their place, with tall shelterbelts and low rural buildings set back from the road.
There was no grand entrance. Just a timber booth, a bright sign covered in information, and a small queue.
Before we had finished reading it, a chicken walked into the crowd.
It showed no concern for shoes or people. It wandered past our feet, pecked twice at the grass, passed between another pair of legs, and continued at exactly the same speed when someone stepped aside to let it through.
Katherine was already at the sign, reading what was open that day.
A Butterfly on My Hand
We went first to the Butterfly House.
Inside, the hard summer light softened under the translucent roof. Palms and dense green foliage enclosed the space. The air was damp. Butterflies moved between the leaves, sometimes passing close to a shoulder before settling somewhere else.
A notice explained what to do.
If a butterfly was resting on a leaf, move a hand towards it slowly. No sudden movement. If you got close enough without alarming it, the butterfly might climb aboard.
It sounded simple.
I chose one and moved my hand towards it.
It flew away.
I tried another. Slower this time, the hand lower. Just as I thought I was close enough, its wings opened and it was gone too.
There were several attempts.
Then one stayed.
I eased my hand towards the leaf.
One thin foreleg reached out and touched my skin. The butterfly paused. Then the other legs followed, and the whole body moved, almost delicately, from the leaf onto my hand.
I stopped moving.
Its black-and-orange wings remained closed for a while, then opened slightly.
Katherine had her phone up.
I turned my face towards her. I could not quite keep the grin down, but the hand holding the butterfly stayed flat and still.
The Wind in the Field
Outside, the light became hard again.
The sunflower field lay ahead.
By February, these were no longer light, newly opened flowers. The plants stood tall and close together. Their leaves were broad and heavy. The heads had filled with seed, and some had begun to bow under their own weight.
Narrow tracks ran between the rows. Once inside, the leaves brushed against your arms and the flower heads hung close to shoulder height.
The wind was strong that day.
It struck one side of the field and the first row leaned, then the row behind it. Leaves flipped over, exposing their dull grey-green undersides. When the wind eased, the heavy heads rose again.
Then another gust came.
The whole field moved.
Leaves, stalks and seed heads rubbed against one another with a continuous dry rushing sound. Inside the rows, the sound of the plants sometimes drowned out the voices of people nearby.
Katherine walked deeper along one of the narrow tracks.
The wind blew her short hair across her face. She lifted a hand and pushed it away. A few steps later another gust came sideways through the rows; leaves turned together around her and she angled her face away until it passed.
One Seed
Up close, the yellow petals were no longer the first thing I noticed.
It was the centre of the flower.
The seed head was broad and heavy, packed tightly with sunflower seeds.
I touched one. The shell had already hardened.
I worked a single seed free with a fingernail. Its shell was almost black. When I split it along the edge, a small ivory kernel appeared inside.
It smelled faintly green and fresh. Nothing like the roasted smell of supermarket sunflower seeds. No oiliness. No toasted edge.
I put it in my mouth.
There was no crisp crack.
The kernel was soft and still held a little moisture. First came a faint sweetness, then, as I chewed, the clean taste of sunflower seed.
I looked at the split black shell in my palm.
Then picked another from the flower head.
The Red Truck
Among all that yellow and green stood an old red truck.
It was impossible to miss.
Sun and weather had eaten through much of the paint, exposing brown rust along the bonnet and doors. Two round headlights still bulged from the front. A few sunflowers had been tucked around the truck itself, so that the red metal sat inside the moving field like something left behind from another time.
Katherine walked towards it.
She stopped first at the front, one hand resting on the bodywork.
Another gust came through the field. Her hair blew across her face. She pushed it away, narrowed her eyes against the wind, and the corners of her mouth lifted.
After a while she opened the driver’s door.
She turned towards the cab and leaned in to look. When she glanced back, the wind caught the hair she had just put in place and threw several strands across her cheek again.
She left the door open.
One hand stayed on its edge while the other went up to her hair. Behind her, rows of sunflowers bent together in the wind, yellow heads rising and falling around the old red truck.
Then she stepped back towards the bonnet.
This time she left her hair alone.
Her chin lifted slightly. Her gaze moved beyond the truck, towards the far side of the field. The wind kept lifting her hair and letting it fall.
Farther on stood a wicker chair surrounded by sunflowers.
Katherine sat down, crossed one leg over the other and rested her chin on one hand.
Four Sunflowers, Two Ice Creams
When we chose the flowers to take home, I remembered the story about giving two sunflowers.
According to the story, two should have been enough.
We bought four.
By February the heads were large. Four of them together became an awkward mass of yellow heads and broad green leaves, heavy enough to hide half a person carrying them.
Before leaving, we bought two ice creams.
One each.
The chickens were still wandering between the tables and the grass. One passed close to us, pecked twice at the ground and showed no interest at all in the four enormous flowers.
We carried the sunflowers and the ice creams back towards the car.
They Did Not Turn
At home I put the four sunflowers together.
After dark, I went to look.
All four heads were still facing the same directions as before.
I waited.
Nothing moved.
Later, I went back again.
Still the same.
Not one had turned towards another.
I switched off the light.
The four sunflowers remained in the dark, each facing its own way.
