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“Poppies” Summary
It was three days before the anniversary of the end of World War I, and people had already put poppies on the graves of people who died in the war. Before you went off, I pinned one of the poppies onto the front fold of your jacket, its red petals made of creased paper covering up the strip of yellow fabric that ran along the border of your suit jacket.
I wrapped some clear tape wrapped around my hand in order to pick as many white cat hairs off of you as I could, turned your shirt collar down, and stopped faced from looking too sad and emotional. I wanted to gently rub the tip of my nose against yours, pretending to give Eskimos kisses like we did when you were a small child. I wanted to run my fingers through your black, gelled curls, but I resisted. Everything I said came out wrong, like fabric coming apart.
But I was brave and walked with you to the front door, and even swung it open it for you. To you, the world outside seemed full of wonder and opportunity, like a treasure chest. You were gone in a fraction of a second, drunk with the possibilities. After you left, I went to your bedroom and released a singing bird from its cage. Later I saw a single dove fly out of a pear tree and I followed it here, along the walls of the churchyard. My stomach was rumbling with anxiety and I wasn't dressed for the cold weather—I didn't have a hat, warm coat, scarf, or gloves.
At the top of the hill, I traced the writing on the war monument with my fingers. I leaned against the monument, making it look like it and I were two halves of a wishbone (the forked bird bone that people snap and make wishes on at meals). The dove soared freely through the air, as if it were stitching decorative embroidery across the sky. And I listened, hoping to hear your voice coming up from the playground on the wind.
I hope it's helpful!
