Dani carried the sunflower carefully through customs.
She had found it In Kraków, while wandering between the stalls in the Cloth Hall, passing amber jewelry, carved wooden figures, and rows of souvenirs.
Outside, the church cast a shadow across the square. Beneath it, among the stalls, Dani stopped at a display of flowers woven from dried wheat and dyed yellow.
She picked one up.
She turned it in her hands, touching the petals and the twine tied around the stalk.
Then she bought it.
At the airport now, she clutched it against her chest.
~
Ahead of us, an agricultural inspection station stood between our flight and the airport exit. The trashcan beside it overflowed with contraband.
Vacuum-sealed kielbasa. A wedge of smoked cheese wrapped in wax paper. Apples bruised from someone’s carry-on. A plastic clamshell of pierogi gone soft at the edges.
The inspector looked at us.
“Open your bag.”
He found our jar of lingonberry jam immediately.
“Into the trash.”
He took the jar and turned to Dani.
“Hold on.”
He reached for the sunflower.
She let him take it.
He turned it over in his hands, examining the yellow petals, then the twine binding the stalk.
“Agriculture. Not allowed.”
“It’s not real,” Dani said. “I’m not going to plant it.”
He looked at her, then back at the flower. The embroidered hem of her skirt showed below her jacket, still wrinkled from the flight.
He opened his mouth, then stopped.
“Just keep it indoors. Okay?”
Dani held out her pinky.
“I promise.”
He handed it back.
~
Dani walked out of the airport clutching the sunflower to her chest.
Behind us, someone argued for their sausages. The inspector dropped them into the trash.