Lucie found Granddad in the garden. He was sitting on the bench opposite a bed of scarlet poppies. There were tears running down his seamed, brown cheeks.
Lucie scrambled into his lap. “Aw Gramps, doncha cry.”
The old man hugged her. “Not really crying lovely. More remembering. There was poppies like them when we went back to the battlefields to do the decent thing by the bones of the dead.”
Lucie thought for a moment then climbed down, and touched a flower with a gentle finger.
“You have to remember,” she said slowly, “but they wouldn’t want you to cry.”
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