Remember The Poppies by Shara Bueler-Repka I stared at the American Flag-draped casket in front of me, not wanting to embrace the cold hard reality that my dad was gone. My dad, so vibrant and full of life, feisty and yet kind, lay silent in a steel gray box. It seemed only yesterday that we embarked on one of our many adventures together. “Let’s go for a drive!” Dad grinned, reaching for his walker. “You don’t have to tell me twice,” I said, grabbing the car key. Dad had just gone through hip surgery and it was a joy to hit the road and explore—something I enjoyed doing with him most of my life. We were two peas in a pod, as they say. Rains had drenched California, bringing much-needed moisture. Flowers sprang up everywhere. The California State flower, however, brought the most attention. No one had seen the poppies in this abundance since time-out-of-mind. Gazing across the valley, an entire mountain appeared to be painted orange as the poppies took over its landscape. We meandered through the countryside and down dirt roads. Ranches and homesteads from bygone eras dotted the hills and valleys. Patches of poppies graced the spaces between the old dwellings and blanketed the bright green hills of spring, adding beauty and life to the lonely landscapes. We wound down a hill and navigated around a huge hole filled by the rains. The tires of his Tesla made waves through the water as I tried not to bury it in the muck.
We dodged the last pothole and noticed two people in a big 4x4 Jeep. They stared wide-eyed at the Tesla and then at us—their looks obvious: Are they crazy?
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We laughed and waved at them as we cruised by in search of more poppies. Our adventures had not quite ended, however, as another stretch of rough road loomed ahead. Dad’s old eyes couldn’t read the depth of the road ruts, but I could. “Watch that rut,” he barked. “Don’t bottom out!” I chuckled and fussed back, “Dad, it’s fine. The tires are straddling the sides and we’re clearing it.” “Well, I don’t know about that. It looks like we’re gonna hit,” he said. “Drive over there,” he commanded, waving his finger toward the side of the road. “If we drive over there, we will hit,” I laughed, easing the tension. I stayed the course, and soon we were safely rolling on a good patch of road. “I guess you were right,” he grinned. We crested the last hill, delighting in a beautiful view of the valley spread out below us. “You’re a good driver,” he smiled. “You taught me,” I smiled back. We topped off our trip with burgers and chocolate malts and headed for home. We decided to dub this adventure our “Poppy Drive,” which became one of my favorite memories. Sitting on a cold metal chair, I gazed at the mountains beyond his casket. Memories, like our “Poppy Drive,” drifted through my thoughts. However, other memories, not so pleasant, threatened to overshadow these: the feeling of helplessness the night he took his final breath; the heart-wrenching sorrow of telling my mom and the immediate family; the pain of watching him slip away. What would I choose to dwell on? To be honest, even the good memories stung, knowing that’s all we had now.
