Poppy

Mrs. Hanbury paced along the hard oak floor. The sound of the ancient grandfather clock ticked away at her patience as she paced faster and faster. She would glance at the door every time she passed by, as if waiting for someone to come bursting through. In fact, she was expectant of it.  

It had been nearly two weeks since her husband, Mr. Hanbury, had come home. With every glance up at the door her heart leaped a little, as if her husband would come barging in at that exact moment. Oh, how that excited her nerves. To see her husband coming home once more would be a sight indeed, the very thought made her walk a little faster every time she imagined it. His large exterior would come crashing through the door, breaking it off its hinges. Splinters of wood would go flying everywhere, piercing her skin and sprinkling the cold dinner she had yet to touch. He’d take her by the shoulders and- well she shuddered at the thought of what he might do next. 

Now, Mr. Hanbury was never a violent or cross man, but had he known what she had done, he might be very cross with her indeed. That’s what made her the most nervous. He had never raised a hand against her, nor even raised his voice. He was a patient and caring man, soft spoken with a gentle demeanor. Mr. Hanbury was such a patient husband. He was so kind to his wife. She remembers when they bought their beautiful little house, he had made her a beautiful little garden to go with it. 

Oh! Their wonderful little garden! They had petunias and marigolds and pansies. They even had a little rose bush, and her favorite flower, poppies. He would pay extra care to the poppies for Mrs. Hanbury because she loved them so much, and he loved her. She sometimes thought he might have loved her as much as she loved those poppies. But she was doubtful because she loved them more than anything else in the world. As she remembered her little garden with her beautiful poppies, her mind began to calm a little.  

She sat down at the table where her untouched dinner still lay. It had been so long since she had put it out that there were little hairs growing on it now. She swatted away a few flies that had tried to make her dinner their own, and as she did so, she looked at her old, wrinkled hands. There used to not be a single callus or scar, her husband had made sure of that. Mr. Hanbury never let her lift a finger to help with the gardening or often even the cooking. She always observed, but never helped.  

She remembered one warm day that past spring, she had gone out into the garden where Mr. Hanbury was working. He was digging in a new corner in hopes of turning it into a vegetable garden and she grew tired of the house chores and craved doing something new. However, he had stood up to dust the dirt off of his clothes and shooed her away. 

“I don’t want you to strain yourself, my dearest,”. He had told her. “You’re going to stay young and soft forever.” He had given her one of his reassuring warm smiles and kissed her on those old, cracking hands of hers. He then returned to his gardening as she could only watch from afar as he dug his trowel deep into the soil. She stood there perhaps a moment longer than she should have, transfixed at the little shovel stabbing into the dark soil, over and over again. 

As she remembered this, she absentmindedly sipped the cold tea that sat with her untouched dinner. She had often wondered what it was like to dig into something with such vigor like that. How satisfying would that be? She wanted to make something beautiful like her little garden with her beautiful poppies and to stab into that soft dirt. Oh, that would be so lovely! 

Mr. Hanbury hadn’t been home for nearly two weeks now, and Mrs. Hanbury had grown tired of the same household chores. Every day the same routine over and over, make breakfast but only something that didn’t require knives or the stove, laundry, dust and scrub every surface, then read quietly until Mr. Hanbury returned to make dinner, then she would assist where he would allow her to, so she didn’t hurt herself. However, one day Mr. Hanbury wasn’t there to shoo her away. Better yet, he hadn’t been there to see what she had done. 

She had started with the lovely rose bush. It had always been far too large for her liking, always snagging her dress whenever she passed by. So, she took the sheers and snipped away until every last branch was too short to get her again. Then, she took the trowel and dug into every inch of soil, ripping up and tearing those lovely flowers Mr. Hanbury had planted just for her. She was going to make them even more beautiful though, and she was going to do it all by herself with her old soft and uncalloused hands. She stabbed and stabbed at the soft dirt; it was so much more invigorating than she had imagined.  

It was difficult at first, the trowel’s handle was slick and wet and kept slipping in her hands. Eventually, she managed to get her grip on it, and she tore into the marigolds, dug up the petunias and ripped up the pansies, but she never touched her perfect poppies. Instead, she moved onto the vegetable garden. It was still unfinished from that past spring, a giant hole sat where the cucumbers were supposed to go. One giant imperfection in her soon to be perfect garden that she was going to make all on her own. 

She had the perfect way to fill that giant imperfection. 

Mrs. Hanbury loved her husband. He was kind and warm, he never let her lift a finger to do hard work. She rarely left the house because he didn't want her to get hurt or find herself in any trouble. He took care of her and kept her safe. Oh, but he would be so very cross with her if he saw what she did to their beautiful little garden. He was not an angry man, but he did not like imperfections, and she had made his perfect garden, temporarily, imperfect. She was going to make it more beautiful though! He would see.  

Mr. Hanbury had said one day that he should like to get rid of the poppies to make the vegetable garden bigger. “You have so many other beautiful flowers!”, he had said. “The poppies aren’t even the prettiest of the bunch!”. Now, Mrs. Hanbury didn’t like this one bit. He just didn’t understand that they were the most beautiful, perfect thing in the whole garden! And they made the most wonderful teas and cakes. He couldn’t get rid of them. 

Mrs. Hanbury really did love her husband, but she loved her perfect poppies even more. 

So, she would just have to show him. She would tear up the garden and replace everything with poppies. It would be the most perfect poppy garden and they could have nothing but the best teas and desserts forever. That’s why, when he tried to dig up her poor flowers, she took his trowel and dug into him like the soft soil. And oh, it was everything she had imagined! How had she lived for so long and never known the pleasure of digging for herself?  

She dug and she dug until she felt like he was perfect for burying. She would put him in that big imperfect hole, and she would plant so many poppies for him. Maybe if they were growing on him, he would learn to love them as she does? If he’s under the poppies, he could no longer take away her beautiful flowers. The only joy that she ever felt in their perfect little house, perfect garden or perfect marriage. She would help him understand. 

She finally finished her cold tea and set it down with the long forgotten about dinner. She had nearly forgotten why she was so nervous in the first place, feeling nearly giddy thinking about her newly improved garden. Mr. Hanbury, if he was still alive, would be so very upset with her, but if he saw how beautiful it looked now! Oh, she knows he’d just love it. 

She was then awakened from her thoughts by a loud knock on the door. That’s why she had been so nervous! She jolted from her chair, making sure to check the mirror for anything out of place. She knew someone would come looking for her husband and she wanted to be ready for it. Now, after her cup of tea she felt much better and calmer answering the door. With a smile, she greeted Mr. Hanbury’s sister. 

“Oh Agnus! What a surprise!”, Mrs. Hanbury said in a cheerful tone. 

“Hello dear, is my brother at home? No one has heard from him in a little while now, and I’m getting worried about him.”  

“Why yes, he’s in the garden. Why don’t you come inside?” Mrs. Hanbury stepped aside to let Mr. Hanbury’s sister through, clutching the trowel behind her.