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Poppies and Gravestones: Memories Embodied in a Little Red Flower
For me, the moment of spring’s rebirth comes about with the explosive blossoms of poppy flowers. Tulips and daffodils may bloom first, but there is often still snow on the ground, making the world outside feel cold and dead. It is not until after these bulb flowers have come and gone that I finally feel spring’s rejuvenating presence as my family home is ablaze with fiery red and orange poppies. Our yard is filled with these charming wildflowers; when they finally arrive in full bloom, they sprinkle my life with color and energy — passionate, unruly, and beautiful. In my opinion, it is the high point of the season. Like most of the flowers in my family’s garden, my great-grandmother planted the poppies here, likely from some faraway place she traveled to on one of her many adventures. When spring comes, I love to sit among these flowers, watching their oversized heads bob about in the breeze as I think of my adventurous ancestors, my past, and my family. For as long as I can remember, poppies for me have always been about memories.
When I first arrived in London, I was surprised to find symbols of these poppies scattered throughout the city, almost like the living…
