CW: Death of a parent, hanahaki depiction

It was January 21st. Snowflakes drifted down from the clouds above, gathering on the spaces less-traveled, and melding into ice under footprints.

Mom and I walked on the icy pavement, carrying bags full of stuff to celebrate my sixth birthday.

“Careful, Asya,” she said, her eyes on me rather than on the pavement under her feet.

“I’m okay!” I said as I rapped my boots, balancing the heavy-for-a-six-year-old bag between my arms.

“Stand aside, stand aside,

Or I’ll kick you to the side!”

It was a game I learned from my best friends: Bilge and Çınar. During breaks from letters and numbers, we would link our arms together and stomp our feet in time like soldiers through the corridors of Tambul Primary School.

“Stand aside, stand aside,

Or I’ll kick you to the side!”

Of course, there was no actual kicking. Unless a boy, like Barış, made fun of Çınar for playing with us girls. Then there was a lot of kicking — and scoldings from the teachers who caught us.

No kicking now but, still, adults chuckled down at me as they cleared out of my way and children whined to their parents about wanting to play, too.

“Stand aside, stand aside,

Or I’ll kick you—”

Thump.

My right foot slipped a bit before I managed to balance myself as I looked over my shoulder. “Mom?”

She was on the pavement, clasping at her throat, gasping for breath between fits of coughs.

“Mom!”

I dropped my bag onto the pavement before, thump, finally slipping on the ice in my hurry to reach her.

I groaned; a sound that turned into a whine as my mom continued to cough and gasp and scratch at her throat.

Petals turned to buds and buds turned to blooming poppies out of her mouth as mom coughed and hacked and gasped.

Her eyes struggled to focus on me as she vomited poppy after poppy.

“Don’t…look…” she managed to get out between clumps of wet poppies but I couldn’t stop staring.

I couldn’t stop staring as mom’s eyes glazed over and her body slumped to the ground, twitching as poppies continued to pour out of her mouth.

Tears slid past her eyes to trickle down to her ears and suddenly, her body stopped spasming.

I breathed a sigh of relief, not knowing what that meant just yet.

“Mom,” I said as I crawled to her side. Or at least I tried to. Someone was pulling me by the shoulders, stopping me from reaching for her.

“Let go,” I said, my eyes set upon my too-still mom. I didn’t understand.

But I would.

I would understand that mom was dead.

I would understand that grief could turn even a six-year-old’s hair white.

And I would understand that falling in love was a death sentence dotted with poppies.

Pop. Poppy goes pop.