Once, when I was fifteen years old, my Grandmother and I took a drive up a small canyon by her home. It was an afternoon spackled in light, and as an artist my Grandmother was a great appreciator of beauty. We came upon a field where tall green grasses were highlighted by orange-red poppies. Perfection. She always had her camera with her so I was hustled out of the car and a picture was taken of me standing amid such radiant flowers. Poppies have been one of my favorites ever since. I still have that picture, perhaps I'll scan it in, but it reminds me of something I will miss. Yesterday was my Grandmother's birthday. She would have been 81. She passed away in August of last year. What a woman. I admire her more as I grow older, because so much of what she endured and over came happened in her adult years. She had a strength I didn't understand for a long time. I am sure I still don't.
Happy Birthday Grandmother. I love you. And I am planting poppy seeds this year.
