I’d like to find one. A particular one. Not the one, because there are multiple ones for everyone. And not more than one, because I only want to sow one field all of my days. I would sit in my easy chair with my head of fluffy white hair and look to the left at my one, and he would look to the right, and I’d smile and the wrinkles around his eyes would deepen as the corners of his mouth turned up. And the love that we’d sown would be tall and lush, softly undulating, stretching in all directions.