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Mom loved poppies.

She didn’t love them in an “oh, those are pretty” casual way. She loved them in the way you love something that feels like part of who you are. Wherever there was a garden, there were poppies. Especially in the front yard. They showed up along edges, in beds, tucked between perennials, and sometimes in places no one remembered planting them at all. That was the magic of them. They cheerfully reseeded themselves every year, as if they had been invited. These were the heirloom poppies like Papaver somniferum. The old varieties that carry stories in their genetics. Lavender, white, pale or hot pink, and endless variations in between. Mom helped them along, of course. Some years intentionally, some years without even realizing it. In the fall she gathered the dried pods. I remember watching her shake them, listening to their hollow rattle. She knew what it meant. Some seeds were carefully saved, others passed along, and many simply slipped away as she moved through the garden. They fell where they wanted, and she let them.