The decor in the Midtown station, at least below ground, is brutalist, concrete walls and platforms, the only pops of color coming from the station signage. But on the southbound platform where I wait for my train, there’s a poster advertising a Van Gogh exhibit, with a painting of two cut sunflowers that look a bit like flaming stars against a cobalt blue background. I stare at the picture, which opens a door in my memory. One weekend when we were kids, Mom took Ethan to a soccer game while I stayed home with Dad. As soon as Mom backed down the driveway, Dad jumped out of his chair at the breakfast table. “We’re going to Pike’s,” he said, referring to a large garden and plant store. “Gonna get some sunflowers to plant for your mom.” We hurried to Pike’s and bought bags of soil and a bunch of black-eyed Susans, because one of the aproned gardeners at the store said they were related to sunflowers and low maintenance. By the time Mom and Ethan came home, Dad and I were sweaty and soil-streaked and we had most of the black-eyed Susans planted in the backyard where Mom could see them from the kitchen or den. It was really Dad who planted them—I just carried a few of the flowers across the yard and helped pat the soil around them. But I felt as if I’d designed the gardens at Versailles, and Dad called me his number-one helper. I carried a grin on my face for a solid week afterward.

That was the summer before Dad went to Iraq, before everything went wrong.