Poppy Meadow

Ron poured himself a whiskey and lemon. He only ever added the lemon part when he was just with himself, or occasionally, in the company of his late wife, who, to his internal sadness, he had outlived by a number of years. Lemon wasn't something real men added to their drinks. At least in proper company.

He laid back on the lounger his kids had convinced (with lots of poking, persuasion and outright bullying) him to buy and Ron could not help but wonder why he had resisted the chair for such a long time. Was it the idea that it did his standing for him or the gaudy colour that put him off? Either way he was thankful for it and could not picture anywhere he'd rather park himself for that evening.

It took a little fumbling with the new fangled phone he'd gotten last Christmas (another insistence of his kids) and laid back, closed his eyes and took in the music of his youth.

We'll meet again began to play. Never a more beautiful song there was. It brought back memories of dances, tearful goodbyes and even more tearful reunions on the eve and fall of the great war.

How he missed his dear Eleanor. Tears began to spill from the creases of Ron's eyes, trickling down into the crevices of his lined face. He wiped them hurriedly. Not even comfortable crying on his own. And he gripped his whiskey tumbler firmly in his hand and downed it in one.

Ron waited for something to happen. And waited. And. Nothing.

Then he remembered. And laughed. He had not added the final ingredient of his favourite drink. An ingredient he would add for the first time. And the last.

Ron leaned forward in the recliner and found it a struggle. That was the only draw back of the thing. It was only good for Laying back. Not so good for sitting up.

Finally in a position where he could, Ron mixed the drink again on the little camping table that once went on a camping trip and had since lived in his garage. They never did go on enough camping trips. Whiskey. Lemon. Enough painkillers to drop a moderately sized elephant.

Sip.

More lemon. Drown the bitterness.

Better.

Ron laid back in his colourful recliner, tumbler in hand, music floating into the sky. He relaxed, eyes drifting shut. The second last thing he remembered was how full of stars the night sky had been. The last thing he remembered was stargazing with Eleanor. She sure loved stars.

The cool breath of the late evening air was replaced with an unexpected heat. Feeling the warmth on his skin Ron's eyes flickered open and he was momentarily blinded. As his eyes adjusted he found himself lying on his back, rather comfortably, staring up at a beautiful blue sky adorned with fluffy white clouds.

Am I...

He barely had a moment to finish the thought when he was taken by a large sneeze. And another. The only sound that broke the quiet of... Wherever he was. (Ron had a few thoughts on that. Largely informed by the Catholic school his mother made him attend as a child. The heat was certainly right. But he was almost sure that sinners never got as good a view as this).

His eyes watering from the force of the sneezes, Ron finally got a good luck at where he was. He was in a field, which at least explained the sneezing. He had always had terrible hay fever.

Well, a field wasn't entirely accurate as fields tended to have fairly short grass and a lot less flowers than there was here. In fact, no flowers at all really. But this place. It was full of them. And each one a large Bloom, a startling red. Poppies... They were poppies. Just like the ones they hand out on memorial Day.

Ron laughed and heard the laugh of another man, surprising himself. This wasn't the laugh of someone who had drank whiskey for forty years straight or smoked for almost as long (he gave up the cigarettes seven years ago on his daughters request. He got tired of being sent articles with horrible looking pictures of lungs and teeth). It was a fresh laugh, a young man's laugh. That couldn't be. But.

He looked at his hands. They were no longer lined and scarred. They were smooth and young, lightly tanned. He hadn't been able to get a tan in years. Too much insistence that skin cancer would be just terrible (but in his experience, missing out on sunny days had been far more terrible than the threat of skin cancer had ever been).

Barely daring to breathe, Ron slowly reached his hands up and touched his face. There were no lines, or bumps. No scars or jowls. His skin was smooth and he had a strong jaw once more.

Ron laughed, and hoping his luck would hold out, he leapt to his feet. His legs were springy and his joints strong. He felt tall again.

Ron jumped on the spot a few times just because he could (again). He felt life coursing through him. He hadn't had so much energy in such a long time.

The sum beating down on him, Ron decided it was high time to find out just where he was.

Seeing the same thing in every direction, Ron's old survival training kicked in (which he found rather funny seeing as if his hunch was right he wouldn't need survival skills any more. Or any skills for that matter) and he headed north, or as approximately north as he could go.

As he walked the heavy, oily smell of the poppy perfume smacked him around the head with every stride he took. He began to pick out the best and brightest of the poppies, each a startling red, and plucked them from the crowd. Because if his hunch was indeed right, as he was becoming more and more sure it was, there was pretty good odds he would need them.

Soon enough Ron had a bouquet in hand and he was whistling an old marching tune him and the boys would sing, back in the day. The sun on his skin was glorious.

After walking what he guessed was shy of an hour, Ron saw a shadow cast for the first time since he arrived in the meadow. Glancing up to see what cast it, Ron saw two white doves flying overhead, also heading north, and took it as a sign. He picked up the pace, going from a strong stride into a jog, not wanting to lose sight of the doves. As he kept pace with the birds (noting that he was not out of breath like he would have been before) he noticed the sea of poppies spread out before him far past the horizon, each one a shining red jewel under the sun. And that in this sea the only things that changed were the doves, swooping in high arcs around one another, and that a figure appeared to be in sight. Still small for now. Silhouetted against the sun, features hard to make out, but undoubtedly a woman. Ron grinned and picked up the pace more. It could only be...

When he reached her, his brow was coated in sweat and he was sure he was red in the face. When she turned... Joyous. Just absolutely joyous to see her again. His Eleanor. As she had been when she married. Even wearing the pearl gown she had wore on the day they wed. Smile on her lips but no flowers in hand.

Ron extended the bouquet to her. "A beautiful bride needs a bouquet to match."

She flung her arms around him.

Hand in hand with his dear Eleanor, walking in the sun, doves flying overhead, Ron had never felt so blessed.

She was taking him somewhere but she wouldn't tell him where, all she said was that he would love it. When they arrived... Love was an understatement.

In a grass island in the sea of red, there was a band playing his favourite tunes. Music carried on the air as lemon whiskeys were served by some fine gals in cocktail dresses. And the people swaying to the music, sipping on those whiskeys? Why, it was the boys. His old battalion. Laughing, joking and competing for who had the best anecdote among them. Men he hadn't seen in a long time. A good long time.

Some of these men hadn't made it out of the war. Lost to the fire. Some hadn't made in past fifty having lost it to heart failure, to an accident. To too much whiskey. To a stroke. Some made it to seventy as well. But bower out to old age and poor health. He had been the last one at the reunion some fourteen years ago. He had thought that was his worst day, back then. But now they were here, on the grass in the sun. Young and in one piece. (Which was really saying something for poor Eddie Thompson.)

He ran forward to greet them and all manner of handshakes and hugs were exchanged.

With Eleanor on his arm, surrounded by his comrades, Ron felt tears streaming down his face and laughed.

Tom, another good friend, leaned in and gripped his arm. "Any other day I'd mock you for that Ronny, but it's alright here. Welcome home."

Ron was soon passed a drink and he laughed and sang along with the band, and when ‘we'll meet again’ came on, he let his wife lead him in front of the band where they danced, her head cradled against his shoulder, his hand on the small of her back. Perfume leaked up from the poppies she still clutched in her hand. Ron closed his eyes and sighed happily.

"I never thought I'd feel this again." He whispered huskily to the top of her head.

"Me too." Eleanor whispered back.

It was perfect. It was right. It was a place he never wanted to leave. Here at the heart of the poppy meadow.

A loud noise rang in Ron's ear, jarring his from his bliss.

"Ow!" He cried.

"What wrong?" Eleanor broke from the dance, looking up at him. Her large eyes were full of concern. The noise continued. Bombarding him from above.

"Can't you hear that?" Ron asked her, both in pain and perplexed Eleanor couldn't hear the noise. "Ron?" Eleanor seemed to have fear in her eyes now.

But her voice echoed as if she were far away and she seemed blurry. The red of the poppies began to merge with the white if her dress.

His old friends rushed around her, and him, but he couldn't make out any of their faces and their voices began to meld. Ron turned from one friend to another trying to figure out what was happening.

He could no longer hear the music. The singers crooning voice. The doves flying high above. He could not smell the flowers. The flowers that had surrounded him moments ago. His world was getting smaller.

Ron reached out to try and take Eleanor's hand. His hand passed through hers.

He cried her name. She mouthed something he couldn't hear.

It had been perfect.

Ron's eyes opened to flashing blue lights and men in dark overalls poking and prodding him. Asking him questions. Things he couldn't understand. It was dark here and cold. The wind bit hard. He could hear the sound of his daughters voice. She sounded panicked. Hysterical.

Ron, realising what had happened, slumped and began crying uncontrollably. Fat steaming tears pouring unstoppably down the crevices of his old face, into his leathery, lined hands like the world had cracked in two and all the oceans waters had fallen into the depths.

They called his name. Tried to get him to stand, to calm himself.

It took three attempts.

When they got him in the ambulance he was still weeping. His daughter held his hand. "Dad! Please stop crying dad! You’re okay!"

Ron turned away from her.