It is right when the poppies reach their full blooming pomp that she likes it best. Most days she comes by daybreak, when she knows they’ll still be sticky from the dewy coating left by dawn. And there she lies for ages, surveying the lazy paths the clouds above march on, immersed in defying the brightness of the harsh cobalt sky with her brazen stare. Until she can bear it no more. Then she revels on the tears of relief that at some stage start oozing down her face. More than anything she relishes it when they trickle into her ears and make bits of her hair really wet. No-one could notice her now if they cared to – she’s part of the field, she’s the vegetation. I’m a big bunch of poppies, and who could find me now?

 

Some days she plays the game. If only she remained hidden for many hours, loads of hours, an entire day, until after the last gasp of daylight is long gone, until well after darkness had settled in, even up to that point when the poppy field turns unnerving and creepy. Perhaps if mother didn’t have her for such an enormous spell of time she might, who knows? – yearn for having her close, and perhaps that could again be a way she could steal into her copious embrace. Wouldn’t she fancy that? When father used to take his tourists from the airport to the hotels down town or when he was getting back to Fertilia, if she happened to spot the van she’d always run to stand by the road and wave as he drove by. He would wave back and sometimes would even honk that constipated horn of hers. The big red letters painted on the sides resembled her poppies. She so adored them. Father had allowed her to use a can of paint to help him spray over the old ones. They looked superb, those letters. It was as if they fluttered on the road as the van passed by.

 

Another time father sat her on his lap and got her to take charge of the steering wheel, and it wasn’t that difficult after all, that whole business of driving. He handled the pedals for her. She could never understand what they were there for, though he seemed to know and would take care of them while she was in full control of the steering wheel. Not full control, he had to assist a wee because it was actually quite heavy and she wasn’t strong enough to turn it completely. But he told her that she was such an able driver and that very very soon he would get her a van of her own. With big letters. She feels sad they don’t keep her anymore, quite a cutie she was, that van.

 

Some days she still goes to the beach over the road, though not as often as she would before. It’s different now. Then, she would go and watch the town from there as if floating on those shallow pale waves. All those tiny boats seen from that distance looked like scattered petals dancing on the water – that’s what they were, dancing petals. Not poppy petals, other petals, other colours. Mother would fret at the thought of them going there on their own, of course, but she was ever so mindful and careful. Besides, didn’t she keep telling her what mother repeated all the time, that she could only play in the poppy field and should never go over to the beach and all that? All so different, and she also misses sis loads.