Yesterday I had to stop at the grocery store. I was pleased to see a VFW in uniform selling poppies at the door. I bought two; brought them home (with the cilantro and onion for the ceviche my husband was making for supper); and twined one in his cell phone carrier—he is a Viet Nam War veteran and one in one of my hair clips.
Poppies have always been my favorite flower, beginning when I was four years old and my father asked me what I would like to plant in the new flower bed. I promptly pointed at the brilliant red poppies. My mother did not approve as she associated them with drug use of the most evil kind. However, my father prevailed and together the two of us planted poppies. I don’t remember how many of those poppies bloomed that year but many years later my youngest brother gave me a poppy he had started from seed.
Last summer I saw California poppies (in California), and wild poppies this Mother’s Day weekend in Virginia. And today I wore a poppy in my hair.
I miss my Dad.