Poetry By Sylvia Santiago

Rob Brewer CC




Chopin in the Sunflower Maze

He doesn’t speak much English, and I speak zero Polish and negligible French. Fortunately, language isn’t a barrier in imaginary conversations. Chopin smiles when I ask if I can call him Fred. He tells me there are no sunflower fields in Paris. We stroll the dirt path of the maze and sunflowers nod their huge yellow heads as we pass. He asks if I play the piano. I tell him I studied with the Royal Conservatory of Music as a child. I also tell him that Nocturne in C Minor was the first piece I learned outside curriculum. It’s early morning and the air is still cool. Soon the sun will bully the clouds away and the maze will be overrun with families and millennials toting fur babies. Fred asks if I’ve always been drawn to the key of sadness. I don’t reply because we both know the answer. The sunflowers sway in the breeze. He stops to admire a towering flowerhead, his face wan in the sunlight. I read that Chopin asked for his heart to be returned to Poland after his death. I wonder what it’s like, to know where your heart belongs. Maybe if you know that much it doesn’t matter how well your life turns out, or doesn’t.



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Sylvia Santiago is a writer and insomniac living in western Canada. Her work appears in Gone Lawn, HAD, Crow & Cross Keys, Cutbow Quarterly, and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter/X @sylviasays2