REMEMBER

As soon as my brothers climbed onto the school bus that Friday morning in May, I put on my pink sneakers and tied the laces. The bows looked like floppy rabbit ears, just the way they should. It was time for mom and me to take our weekly walk to Kroger.

“Here we go. C’mon!” she called in a voice that made my insides yell HOORAY!

She strode down the road fast enough to make me hurry, but slowly enough to keep me safe. I watched the hem of her dress swish against the backs of her knees and marveled at the rhythm and pace of her steps:

Kro-ger. Kro-ger. HERE-we-go. HERE-we-go.

I skipped along behind her to the song of her walk, trying to keep my body in the shadow of hers.

Kroger was a wonderland of women and wares. Our cart clu-clunked down the narrow aisles as its squeaky wheels squeaked across dingy squares of once-white linoleum.

Mom had a list to follow. She read out the items as we walked, and I ran ahead to find each one. At the checkout, the cashier called out prices and filled the empty spaces between numbers with friendly conversation.

I stood quietly next to Mom to hear her talk and laugh. But I was looking out the huge front window of the store.

A grandma-aged woman stood near the glass. She wore a pale blue dress that stretched tightly over her body and made red lines around her wobbly upper arms. She was holding a shiny yellow pail. The plastic glinted in the sunshine as she moved her body from side to side, looking this way and that.

There was something inside that bucket. I knew, because she kept reaching in, tickling around with meaty fingers. Her touch seemed gentle and I thought the contents must be breakable.

By the time mom finished her visit with the cashier lady, my legs were itching to fly out onto the sidewalk.

The pail lady leaped in front of us with a massive jiggle of flesh and a florid grin.

She reached inside the bucket, stirred the contents around like stew, and pinched two yellowed nails against a short green wire. She tugged daintily, and with the flourish of a magician — PRESTO — a red paper flower appeared in her sweaty, weathered hand.

I didn’t see a price on the flower. Maybe that was what was on the paper strip along the stem. Mom only had so much money and she had probably used it all at Kroger.

“It’s a gift. For you, Robin”, mom whispered. I reached up to take the flower from the Poppy Lady and heard coins jingling in mom’s hand. She dropped them into the pail. They chinked against each other as they parted the flowers and fell to the bottom.

Mom and I headed back toward home. I held the red poppy tenderly with my free hand and twirled it between my fingers like a tiny umbrella.

“Why did you get me this?” I asked. Mom said it was just for me, but who was it from? I saw mom’s shadow stop moving and it got shorter as she bent down to speak softly in my ear.

“This is a special flower. It will help you remember how much you’re loved by people you’ll meet in heaven someday. It’s for Memorial Day. That means “REMEMBER”.

I held that flower close to my face, studying the tiny lines and colors of the crepe paper. I waved my poppy toward heaven, a salute of gratitude to those friends waiting there.

And every Memorial Day, for the rest of my life, I buy a poppy. I wave it heaven-ward with a depth of love that grows with each passing year.

Contact Robin at robinwrites@yahoo.com