When she was young, the name Poppy suited her as she was a vivid creature who seemed to be blown hither and thither by the wind. In middle age she had no time to think about her given name, being more accustomed to think of herself as ‘wife’ or ‘mother’.
Now she was old there was leisure to consider the irony of heedless young ‘carers’ calling her Poppy.
Then he came.
He was about eighteen, she judged, fair-skinned and kind.
He said her skin was as delicate as the petals of a poppy. And life made sense again.
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