Poppy

Early memories often exist without context, as isolated incidents. Such are my memories of Poppy, my great-grandfather. I remember his leather chair, the kitchen behind it. I remember the butterscotch we were supposed to savor, not bite into. I remember my guilt as I accidentally chewed it. I remember his collection of toy animals decorating the shelves along the left-hand wall. On my birthday, Poppy gifted a mama bear and two cubs from this collection. With these, he gave me a cast-metal scottie dog, mistaking it for another cub. They, along with Grandma’s china cabinet, are my most cherished possessions.