Poppy

By Bonnie Martin

• A stirring book about an ordinary girl, with ordinary talents, determined to make an extraordinary difference in the fight against abortion.
• As she moves through her sophomore year of high school in Bradford, Florida, Poppy Stewart realizes she is more than the only child of an Iraq war widow, growing up under the watchful eye of he

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bonnie Martin
• Release date: Mar 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985682908

Book preview

Bonnie Martin

Poppy

First published by Bonnie Martin 2022

Copyright © 2022 by Bonnie Martin

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Bonnie Martin has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

Book cover design by ebooklaunch.com

All biblical quotations are from the New International Version unless indicated otherwise.

First edition

ISBN: 979-8-9856829-0-8

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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This book is dedicated to all those engaged in the battle since 1973. This is so not over.

Contents

Foreword

Acknowledgement

1. The Rememberers

2. Church Suppers

3. Dog Days

4. Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, Have You Reached a Verdict?

5. Captain Parker, I Mean, Henry

6. Life in a Jar

7. Simple Truths

8. The Sentence

9. So, What’s it Worth?

10. Volley

11. She’s Baa-aack

12. Truth

13. Dinner Guests

14. Company Dinner

15. Whatcha Think?

16. The Art Wing

17. Laying the Groundwork

18. The Eye of the Storm

19. Hope House

20. Practice Makes….

21. D-Day

22. Voice from the Past

23. Cowboy Up

24. Last Things

25. Taking Stock and Checking In

26. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? Isaiah 43:19

27. Field Research

28. The Deep End

29. Breaking Through

30. Starry Who?

31. Thanks

32. Black Friday

33. Revelations

34. Grace

35. Daylight

36. Going Home

37. Lost & Found

38. Farewell

39. Life to the Full

40. The Not-So-Bleak Midwinter

41. The Dream

42. Pause Before You Hit ‘Send’

43. We Wish You a Merry Christmas

44. The Speech

45. Remembering

Foreword

When the time comes, as it surely will, when we face that awesome moment, the final judgment, I’ve often thought, as Fulton Sheen wrote, that it is a terrible moment of loneliness. You have no advocates, you are there alone standing before God — and a terror will rip your soul like nothing you can imagine. But I really think that those in the pro-life movement will not be alone. I think there’ll be a chorus of voices that have never been heard in this world but are heard beautifully and clearly in the next world — and they will plead for everyone who has been in this movement. They will say to God, ‘Spare him, because he loved us!’

Henry Hyde (1924-2007)

United States Congressman, 1975-2007

Acknowledgement

My gratitude goes to Savannah Summers for her insight and assistance with editing this manuscript, and to Jane Meeks and Kim Rogers for their willingness to provide practical guidance as the story developed. My dear children, you light up my life and have given me inspiration and encouragement to press on to the end. To my husband Brian, without your love, support and confidence, I would be lost. I cannot adequately express the depth of my love and gratitude. And finally, to my heavenly Father, thank You for Poppy. This is the book I always wanted to write, and it is Yours.

1

The Rememberers

Fifteen-year-old Poppy Stewart’s green eyes were snapping, sparking with the energy fueling her frustration. There was no way around it, and that was all there was to it—she had to go. After giving her mother a glare that could have melted steel, Poppy stomped off to her room to change into something appropriate. Having shut her door more firmly than usual, Poppy began to breathe easier. She truly loved her grandfather and enjoyed spending time with him. Gordon Stewart, or Pop, as she called him, was always a good listener and slow to offer advice. Whenever he ventured a suggestion, though, Poppy had somehow known that she should listen, and probably heed. And Pop had been particularly strong in his suggesting this time. She had heard him talking to her mother about today’s plans over the weekend, and Poppy knew then that her mother would not give her a choice.

Poppy yanked a slightly wrinkled navy t-shirt dress out of her drawer and shoved it shut, a little harder than necessary. Pulling it over her head, she kicked off the flip flops she was wearing and pushed her feet into a pair of sandals. The mirror caught her eye, and Poppy took a moment to smooth her red hair. She smiled when she saw her own scowl, erasing the grooves in her forehead. It wasn’t that bad, really. Pulling her purse off her desk chair, Poppy bounced into the hall, swinging around the banister. Feet flying down the steps, she stopped at the open front door to give a surprised Sarah Stewart a little hug before beaming at her grandfather. She felt a pang when she saw the look of genuine surprise on his face—he had thought that she was dreading this excursion, she could tell. Placing her small hand in his work-worn one, Poppy said, Ready to go, Pop. A boyish smile spread across Pop’s face, and Poppy was instantly glad that she had given herself an attitude check as her mother said.

Pop’s old Buick Regal was an institution in the Stewart family—Poppy couldn’t remember a time before the Regal, or Bessy as Pop called her. A 1980s maroon, Pop kept the chrome shiny and the paint perfect. The interior was always spotless, with a wide-brimmed hat in the back window. One time, Poppy had asked why there was always a hat in the back window, when Pop never wore that particular hat. While waxing Bessy’s hood, Pop had absentmindedly told her, I always made your grandmother keep that hat in the back so that people would think it was a man’s car and wouldn’t mess with her. I guess I just never took it out. Pop wiped his brow and cheeks just then, and Poppy remembered wondering whether it was sweat from the hot sun, or a tear running down his face. Her mom talked about Grandmother Stewart from time to time, but she always seemed vague and shadowy.

You’re awful quiet this morning, little one. Pop’s gentle voice intruded on her reflection. You’re right, Pop, I guess I am. I don’t know why. Got something big on your mind? Pop prodded the conversation. Not really, Poppy shrugged, I’m just thinkin’. Pop accepted this one. I do a good bit of that myself. Poppy listened to the loud clicking of Bessy’s turn signal as the Buick creaked onto the narrow driveway of the oldest town cemetery. In spite of herself, Poppy loved the tall gates marking the entrance. Weathered, covered with a sheen of green moss, they always made Poppy feel as if she was being ushered into another time. Just beyond the gates, the live oaks lined the driveway stretching as far as Poppy could see, with the gently curving driveway obscuring the farther plots. Today was a bit breezy, and the moss hanging down from the oaks swayed the slightest bit, lending a wistful welcome. Out of the corner of her eye, Poppy could see her grandfather straighten in his seat, as if steeling himself. Each year, this day seemed a little more challenging for Pop. The Buick eased past the oldest headstones, the memorials to the town’s founding families, with their delicate stone angels and Grecian markers. The driveway curved past the stones now to the more open fields, with newer stones, ones that hadn’t really become part of the landscape yet. The veterans’ graves lay just beyond in the farthest corner of the cemetery, and this was their destination. Pop shifted in his seat, checking his rearview mirror. There were a few more cars winding along the driveway now, those too a bit vintage, if not downright antique.

Pop eased the car onto the sandy shoulder, turning the key in the ignition. Without the purring of Bessy’s motor, Poppy felt, if not heard, the stillness—the warm, inviting peace of this place. Everything seemed more vivid than usual, from the occasional bee making its round from one hibiscus bloom to the next, to the distant hum of a lawnmower. Why did she resist coming so much? It was such a restful place. Poppy looked over at her grandfather, forgetting for a moment that neither had moved to get out of the car. He looked more tired to her—without his characteristic gentle smile, he seemed much smaller, frailer. She reached her small hand over to his, curling her fingers under his palm. The smile that immediately reached his eyes, glancing over into hers, was her reward. Let’s get this show on the road. Pop paused, You ready to go? Absolutely! Poppy pulled the door handle. I’m all set. Poppy pushed open her door, while Pop reached into the backseat to retrieve his newspaper-wrapped bundle, dewy and fragrant. The deep red poppies were nestled in their abundant leaves, stems freshly cut just after sun-up this morning. This was their ritual offering, a Memorial Day tradition. Some years, when Poppy was younger, she had missed this pilgrimage with Pop. But as she got older, Pop became more insistent that she go along with him. Pop closed the car door, the satisfying thunk of solid metal latching shut.

Poppy moved with her grandfather up the narrow driveway, her fingers laced in his. Neither spoke but moved in steady rhythm toward the iron-gated section ahead. Poppy could smell the heady fragrance of the poppies in their newspaper covering. She didn’t have to turn around to sense the movement of others behind them, making the same trek up the driveway. Reaching their destination, Pop pulled up the latch of the iron gate and swung the door open wide enough for Poppy to walk through behind him, and then leaving the gate slightly ajar for those coming behind. They moved with purpose toward a gray marble stone, rectangular and only slightly worn, toward the back fence. Poppy could see the familiar etched STEWART from a distance. As they came closer, Poppy noticed the trim cryptomeria standing sentinel on either side of the stone and the freshly raked oyster shells that lay, white and glistening, at the base of the headstone. Everything was perfect and Poppy knew why. Though she had never talked much about it, Poppy knew her mother had been there earlier in the day, making sure that things were just so for their visit, as she had done for all the years Poppy could remember. Drawing closer, Poppy could see the smaller engravings under the STEWART inscription: Peter Gordon Stewart 1971-2003 and Julia Webb Stewart 1930-2005. There was a blank space on the marble too, where Poppy knew that her mother’s and grandfather’s names would be etched alongside one day.

As she and Pop paused before the stone, Poppy was suddenly struck with how alone her Pop must feel. His wife and only son had been gone so long. Both taken, Poppy knew, in the blink of an eye. Not wishing to disturb her grandfather’s thoughts, Poppy glanced out of the corner of her eye at Pop. Without surprise, she saw silent tears rolling down his cheeks and squeezed her grandfather’s hand, hoping to convey with that touch all the things she could not express. Sometimes, as much as Poppy liked to talk, she could never think of the words to say. Poppy suddenly became aware of others filing by them, drawn to their own places of remembrance, lost in their own thoughts and paying no mind to the pair standing before the Stewart headstone. Returning Poppy’s squeeze, Pop withdrew his hand and unwrapped the newspaper bundle he still clutched. He tenderly removed the still-wet poppies from the paper and bent over to place them in the planted vase. Drinking in the effect of the lively poppies, Poppy and her grandfather beamed at each other. They were perfect. Hand in hand, they walked over to where the crowd was gathering, where flags had been posted and were fluttering in the welcome May breeze. In years past, Poppy had dreaded this part of their visit – talking, just talking, about things she didn’t understand. This year, however, she looked with different eyes. She saw the white-haired gentlemen, like her Pop, hats in hands respectfully folded in front of them. She saw the silver-haired mothers and grandmothers, handkerchiefs and tissues in hand. Then there were always the small children restlessly pulling at their parents’ and grandparents’ hands, waving small flags, completely unaware of their surroundings. Poppy saw no one her age. A question flitted through her mind – Why was she the only one? – but the thought kept moving through, because it didn’t matter. Today, she was here with Pop. That was enough.

As the small crowd quieted, a uniformed Marine stepped into the center of the United States and Florida flags. The ceremony complete, an older, also uniformed officer exchanged places with the younger soldier. Gazing out at the crowd from under grizzled gray eyebrows, the officer began the recitation that, in recent years, had always caused a chill to run up Poppy’s spine. Ladies and gentlemen, we are here today to honor our loved ones, and those who have no loved ones to visit, who have spent their lives in service to our country, paying the ultimate price because of that service. For those, we give our solemn gratitude: For Clarence Anderson… Octavius Baxter… His voice continued on, Poppy listening intently for what she knew would come. Benjamin Payton… Peter Stewart. Her father. The man she knew only from photographs, from the stories that her mother and grandfather told from time to time. He had been killed, Poppy knew, during the 2003 American invasion of Baghdad, Iraq. She had been just a baby, and too young to have any memories independent of the pictures in her scrapbook. As Poppy’s mind wandered to those snapshots, she was jolted back to the present by the gun salute that signaled they were drawing near to the end to the ceremony. But not quite the end, for this year, as in years past that Poppy remembered, one of the American Legion Auxiliary members stepped to the front of the assembly. Adjusting her reading glasses, this year’s trim, gray-haired designee read the now-familiar words of the late Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

As her words trailed off into the spring morning air, the chaplain nodded his dismissal and the assembly began to straggle back to their vehicles. Pop. Poppy’s voice was quiet. Where did I get my name? Pop, who had been looking off to the river just out of sight, turned his head to smile at his granddaughter. He reached for Poppy’s hand, and they began moving along with the rest of the rememberers. You mean, does it have anything to do with the Flanders poppies? Well, yes, Poppy shrugged. Pop stopped, and looked at her, one of those looks that she felt straight through. Did you know, he began, that legends going far back in time tell of beautiful red poppies appearing on war-ravaged battlefields, not only in World War I, but as far back as Genghis Khan? Poppies, her grandfather continued, are what people think of when they realize that beauty can still crop up in the most unlikely places—even a battlefield. You are that beauty, Poppy, whether you understand that yet or not. Even though she didn’t feel like she understood him entirely, Poppy was content to keep in step with Pop, matching his long, now more confident and measured stride back to the Buick.

2

Church Suppers

Pop eased Bessy up the sharp incline at the foot of Poppy’s driveway, gunning the motor a bit to pull back toward the garage. The garage door was up, and Poppy pulled the door handle excitedly. Her mother was wearing a crisp sundress, complete with make-up and hairspray, which meant that she was coming along with them. She glanced up at the sound of the solid thud of the Buick’s door, her hands still in the cardboard box that she had been rifling through when they pulled up. Her mother’s nervous smile flickered, and Poppy could tell that she still wasn’t sure of her decision. Would she really go this time? He called just a minute ago. This was directed at Pop, not Poppy, who was now shifting from one foot to the other, one eyebrow raised quizzically. He said that he saw you this morning. That the flowers were…lovely. Sarah brushed a wisp of her strawberry blond hair out of her eyes, looking tense. I know what he is looking for, and I don’t blame him. I just can’t find it anywhere. She leaned against the wooden tool bench that stretched the length of the garage, the detritus of two non-woodworking females covering the carefully hung tools and supplies. I just don’t know where else to look, she confessed. Pop moved around the front of the car to join her at the workbench. Sarah, he said, almost sternly, He’s not looking, he’s not asking. The flowers were just lovely. They really were. End of story. Poppy’s mother was not convinced, and looked at Pop, her brow wrinkled. Well, Peter would be looking, and he would have expected me to have found it by now. Sarah curled her fingers, as if she was holding an invisible basketball in front of her face and smoothed back her hair with both palms. Pop, seeming to realize that this conversation was taking them further afield from his chosen route, spoke up. "Well, let’s go anyway. They ask every time, and I just can’t think of another single excuse not to go. As a matter of fact, I’m starting to think that I am crazy for even considering passing up a free lunch. Let’s go, Sarah, you’ll be glad that you did." Poppy’s mother seemed too tired to argue. She shrugged her shoulders and allowed Pop to guide her over to the car. Poppy happily pulled open the back door while Sarah eased herself onto the front seat. As her mother turned to put on her seatbelt, Poppy saw a strange look flicker across her face. Was it sadness? Or fear? Then, just as swiftly, the look was gone and her mother turned her attention to Pop as he pointed the car in the direction of the First Baptist Church.

First Baptist hosted the Bradford community’s Memorial Day luncheon. Had hosted it, in fact, for as long as Poppy could remember, although she had never gone before. The parking lot was already full when they pulled in, and Pop had to weave in and out of the lines of parked cars before they finally found a parking spot on the grass, far from the door. I’ll let you girls out at the door, said Pop. Despite Sarah’s fervent attempt to dissuade him, Pop pulled up to the side door. All ashore that’s going ashore! Sarah flashed Pop a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. Thanks, Pop! Poppy blurted for both of them, and jumped out of the car, shutting both her door and her mother’s with a flourish. Sarah, for her part, made no effort to go inside the church. Mom, inquired Poppy, Aren’t we going in? Her mother nodded her head, meeting Poppy’s green eyes with her own blue ones. Absolutely. Her tone did not match the certainty of that word. Poppy suddenly realized that her mother’s attempt to talk Pop out of dropping them off at the door was not entirely unselfish on her mother’s part; she did not want to go in without him. Poppy entwined her arm around her mother’s and looked up into her eyes pleadingly. Puhleeease! I’m hungry. Soooo hungry. Laughing at her daughter’s antics, Sarah pinched her gently on the arm. Oh, good grief. Let’s go, then. Poppy pulled open the surprisingly heavy glass door, stepped onto the rubber welcome mat and wiped her feet. Looking around, Poppy noticed the red, white, and blue bunting draped along the long folding tables set up in front of the kitchen, laden with casseroles, salads, and cakes. On each of the white paper-covered tables was a small white vase, each vase holding one poppy. More than the decorations, Poppy noticed the knots of people deep in conversation. Young people, old people. Just like the cemetery, though, no one really her age. Poppy looked over at her mother, who was now shifting her weight from one foot to the other, clearly feeling no more welcome inside than outside in the parking lot. Come on, Mom, cajoled Poppy, pulling her mother by the hand, The food is this way! She could tell her mother was wise to her efforts but had decided to go along with Poppy rather than protest. I hear you, I hear you, was all that she said, but allowed Poppy to pull her along toward the fragrant table. Each of them selected a paper plate from the stack and pulled out the requisite fork, spoon, and knife. Poppy wrapped them all together in a napkin, as she had always watched her mother do. Dipping a long-handled spoon into a crispy macaroni-and-cheese casserole, Poppy saw her grandfather come into the room. She paused mid-scoop as she watched two men immediately walk up to Pop, embracing him with firm hugs. She had never seen them before but then, she had never been to one of these before. Still, it seemed that she should know someone who was obviously such a close friend of her Pop’s. Pop returned the men’s hugs with his own, and Poppy saw the look of genuine regard that passed between them. Having filled her plate with no room for the gooey chocolate cake that she had been eyeing, Poppy followed her mother to a table off to the side, close to where Pop was still standing near the door. Do you want anything to drink, Mom? Poppy had seen the table of lemonades, waters and iced teas, and thought she would try to anticipate the next step. Her mother’s smile was warm in return. That would be great. Tea would be nice. Thanks, Poppy.

Turning back toward their table with an iced tea and a lemonade in tow, Poppy saw a familiar-looking person talking to her mother. It was the uniformed Marine who spoke at the beginning of the memorial service at the cemetery earlier that morning. Her mother’s arms were crossed in front of her; she wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t frowning either. As Poppy drew closer, she could hear a snippet of their conversation: …finally accepted the invitation. I didn’t think that you were going to come. The dark-haired Marine had removed his cover, which Poppy had learned as the military term for hat, and was holding it in front of him, much like her mother’s protective posture. Sarah shrugged, and murmured, but Poppy didn’t hear her answer. She looked up, seeing Poppy approaching with the drinks, and waved her daughter closer. Poppy, said her mother, pulling her over to her chair, "This is Henry. I’m sorry, Captain Henry Parker, she corrected herself with a smile. Captain Parker served with your father in Iraq. He lives here in Bradford now. Sarah looked up at Henry, head tilted to one side. So, what brought you to town anyway? With Poppy’s eyes wide at her mother’s revelation, Sarah forced an awkward smile. It can’t be the hot job market. Even Poppy knew that their town was not known for big business. Oh, no, you’re kidding, right? I had hoped to move here and make my fortune, Henry joked weakly. No, seriously, I’m working here. Sarah looked at him questioningly. Here? Yes, here, here at the church. I’m their new youth pastor. With this from Henry, Sarah uncrossed her arms and leaned forward, too curious to maintain her careful posture. What? Since when did you start doing anything like that? Henry was clearly startled by the response, and Poppy could tell that he did not expect that reaction from her. He seemed to struggle to form his answer. After Peter…well, after the explosion, I spent some time in the military hospital, time when I couldn’t do much of anything. Anything except a lot of thinking, that is. Too much thinking, maybe, but it started my journey to a place that I hadn’t been in a long time…well, ever. Henry seemed to realize that he was losing his audience and brought himself back to the two females looking quizzically at him. A place of faith, Sarah. Sarah’s head jerked back, almost imperceptibly, as if she was surprised by his answer. Henry’s smile flashed then, warming his eyes, and he pushed Poppy’s arm gently with his. But you girls are here for cake, and neither of you seem to have any. Let me get some of the best chocolate cake you will ever eat. You sit down. I’ll be right back. And Henry was off, the awkward moment averted, and he soon returned with two huge slabs of the gooey chocolate cake Poppy had been eyeing. After some breezy chitchat, Henry was off again, now chatting with the ladies at the cake table, then disappearing into the kitchen with its hot water and suds. He seems like he knows you, Mom, ventured Poppy, How come I’ve never seen him before? Well, I guess because I haven’t seen him in years – almost ten years, I guess. You wouldn’t remember. Sarah shrugged her shoulders. I still keep in touch with some of the other wives and widows – Poppy could see that she had a hard time saying this last word— but Henry never married. There was really no one for me to stay in touch with. Sarah went back to picking at the food on her plate. He was always one of your father’s favorites. I would always be hearing about ‘Henry this’ and ‘Me and Henry’ that. They had some crazy times together. Sarah put her fork down and sighed. I guess I don’t usually see anyone who reminds me so much of your dad. It’s taken me a little off guard, I have to say." After so many years of being just the two of them, Poppy felt close to her mother, as if she could read her thoughts, and she could tell her mother had something more to say. Sarah Stewart was frank but reserved. Even at fifteen, Poppy knew this was an unusual combination, but one that people seemed to really like about her.

Deciding that now was the perfect time to change the subject despite her curiosity about Bradford’s newest resident, Poppy spent the next few minutes describing the string of nonsensical text messages she had received from Kayla Richardson, her fun-loving best friend, earlier that day, making her mother laugh out loud. Mission accomplished, Poppy thought to herself. Sarah was still wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes when Henry returned to the table alongside Pop, each clearly on a mission. Poppy, her grandfather began, I just learned from Henry here that First Baptist is beginning a weekly youth meeting this summer. Pop’s eyes held their twinkle from earlier. I couldn’t think of anything better for a sweet young girl like you to do on a Wednesday night. I’m sure there are a lot of kids your age that go here. You probably know quite a few of them. What do you say? Having made his pitch, Pop stood back, clearly pleased with himself and his idea. Poppy was less than enthused. Well, um, I don’t think I know anyone who goes to church here. And I don’t even see anyone my age here at all. Poppy looked around the room, gray hair the rule rather than the exception. No offense, Captain Parker, Poppy turned to face him hurriedly, realizing that her tone was probably a little shy of mannerly. I am sure the group will be great. Henry laughed. First of all, no offense taken. Second of all, you can call me Henry. Poppy couldn’t quite square the immaculately dressed Marine with someone she could call Henry. I know there aren’t many kids here today, but you might be surprised who you would know at the church. Poppy’s eyes still held questions, and Henry laughed. Don’t worry – no pressure, Poppy. But we’d love to have you. Henry brushed a few stray crumbs off his pressed uniform absentmindedly. Good seeing you too, Sarah. Hope to see you around. With that, he moved away, leaving Pop looking sternly at Poppy. Unused to such an expression, Poppy moved out of her chair to sidle over next to Pop. What did I do? You could have at least given Captain Parker the courtesy of saying you would think about it, or a ‘maybe.’ Poppy leaned into Pop, asking the question she had wanted to ask since she saw Pop first talking to Henry. Why are you so interested in Captain Parker’s youth meeting, anyway, Pop? Poppy peered up into her grandfather’s inscrutable face. Because I brought him here, little one, Pop answered, moving in the same breath to the door, keys in hand.

3

Dog Days

Summer’s blazing heat settled in quickly after the idyllic cloudless skies of Memorial Day. Poppy’s freckles regained their summer prominence