I was ten when the little poppies spiked on the fields, and I remember how they swayed in the breeze, yellow and red like tiny flames. My mother knelt by the garden, planting more seeds, her hands gentle, yet firm. The war was far away, yet I felt its shadow in the quiet mornings and the silent nights. I would watch the poppies wave and think about the soldiers, brave and young, who wore those same colors. Sometimes, I’d hold a poppy in my hand, feeling the delicate petals, imagining their stories of sacrifice. The memories stay vivid—like the red on the petals, bright and enduring.