When We Were Wildflowers

Chapter 7 - How Quaint

After a raucous afternoon of snacking on Twizlers, microwave popcorn, and Big Red soda while floating around Poppy's pool listening to old school, 90s hip-hop on vintage CDs and a boom box, we are both starved and sunburnt. I never did reapply the hypoallergenic, organic, SPF 50 sunscreen Mom packed in my backpack or eat dinner. My tummy grumbles under Poppy's too-big tankini I borrowed.

"I better text my mom to come get me. What's your address?" I climb out of the pool, step down onto the slippery grass, and smile when it tickles my toes.

"Well, there's not really a house number since it's the only one on the road. So just type Flores Farm Lane. Tell your mom the best way to come is to turn right on Highway 7 outside the development, then turn right about thee-quarters of a mile after the giant sycamore tree."

"Sycamore. Got it." My fingers swipe across my iPhone screen. "Uh oh. I have like seven texts from my mom and two missed calls."

"Oops." Poppy climbs out of the pool and trots to my side. "Dude, she wrote in all caps in those last two. Salty."

"I guess I should have texted her sooner?" I search Poppy's eyes. "Maybe I should call her?"

"No, no, no." Poppy shakes her head like that is grave mistake and grabs my phone. "Text her this." She types: sorry, idk why i didn't check my phone, having too much fun i guess.

"Okay." I send Poppy's text followed by the address and driving instructions. Mom responds immediately. "She'll be here in a few minutes. And says, 'I thought she lived in the neighborhood' with three question marks. I better get cleaned up."

This is bad. Poppy knows it, too. She's chasing me up the steps to the backdoor of her tidy house, through the humble kitchen with mismatched chairs and a real farmhouse sink, up a set of narrow stairs to a loft in the attic where she sleeps. The floor is strewn in stacks of books and journals, piles of clothing, blankets, candles, and pillows like some kind of bohemian lounge or an aisle in a World Market store. It smells like sage and lavender up here, earthy and sweet. My eyes scan the room for my backpack and I find it on top of her vintage papasan chair topped in a burnt orange cushion.

"So, I have an aloe vera plant here in the window. I'll put some on your sunburn." Poppy walks to her own botanical garden of potted plants balancing precariously on her windowsill. "Get dressed."

While she is busy extracting aloe, I tear off the borrowed swimsuit and pull on my undies, shorts and bra. "Will you put some on my shoulders? That's where it's sore."

Poppy's hand is covered in clear gel. It stings for a second when she touches my shoulders, then the damp coolness of the aloe forms a sticky barrier on my skin. "Turn around, I should get your face too." She carefully wipes the goo on my cheeks, nose and forehead and I stand self-conscious of my small chest and training bra. Poppy doesn't seem to notice. "Aloe vera is well known for its medicinal properties for the skin. It is hydrating, which makes it excellent for treating burns since it contains a high concentration of amino acids and vitamins."

"It sounds like you are reading from a text book. Did you memorize that?"

"Well, yeah." She giggles. "I read about it."

"You really do read a lot, huh?" There must be a hundred books spread about her cozy little room.

"It's like I told you, I try to read one new book per week." Poppy wipes her hands off on the towel wrapped about her waist the reaches for the yellowed paperback novel on her nightstand. "See? This one is I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. It's a memoir. So freaking powerful. She was such a creative and strong woman, and definitely one of my favorite poets."