I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect time to lay back and let the cool, thin grass blades of the lush, boundless field caress every inch of my body. Somewhere up in the heavens the clouds were rolling by contentedly, a puffy white shade that reminded me of those thick cottonballs my mother often used with peroxide to clean my knees when I fell off my bicycle as a kid. I wonder if she was up there, thinking the same thing.

Oh, and the flowers… the field was full of them. They were a bit invasive; some blocking my view of the perfect sky while blowing gently but distractingly in the breeze. I could name any flower in that silly field except for those purple ones—what were they called, anyway? I’d spent so many summer afternoons lying alone in their presence talking to Mom, but never had I learned their breed, always dancing in the wispy zephyrs that traditionally accompanied the season’s arrival.

...But what was in a name? As long as Mom was listening, I hadn’t a care in the world.