Where Poppies Grow

The day I learned about dorm rooms was the day I swore to myself I would go to college, if only to get away from my parents. At 18 I left high school with a graduating class of 160 and friend group of 0. The last summer of my adolescence was coming to a close and college was in my fast approaching future. That fact wasn’t changing. The only thing that did was now, I had something to leave behind.

“I can always drive here on the weekends. Campus isn’t more than two hours away.”

The day before my move-in date had arrived. The only thing I could think about was how much it reminded me of the day I first met Jude; inarguably perfect. We sat together in a ring of flowers underneath a tree, hiding from the unforgiving sun. His back rested against the trunk and I was sprawled out beside him on my back as he plucked the white poppies and stuck them in my hair.

We didn’t even pretend to glance at the tombstones; that required taking our eyes off each other for too long. Like there was a fear one of us could disappear at any second.

But I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him so calm despite that. In the three years I spent with him, his smile was never small but I don’t think I ever saw it quite as big as it was when he told me;

“No,” with a smirk and an amused exhale. I squinted suspiciously, not understanding him.

“No? You don’t want me to visit?” I asked almost sarcastically, biting my tongue. I didn’t want to get offended before knowing what he intended that to mean.

“Hit the nail on the head, Pops.” He said, unfazed by the way I thrashed the flowers out of my hair, sitting up haphazardly.

“Elaborate, please. Before I water the flowers with my fucking tears, Jude.”

His laugh rolled out smoothly as his head lolled back against the bark. He looked down his nose at me and said slowly, “I want you to never come back here.”

Tears pricked at my eyes like vines itching to take over my entire face. I felt the first one spill down my cheek as Jude continued, voice warm like the sun coming down through the branches above. I closed them tightly, not wanting to listen, not wanting to see.

“You stay away from this town, your house. From death. From red convertibles, from walking with your head down.” I felt his hands cup my face, lifting it, his thumbs stroking my temples. I opened them to face him.

Everything about Jude was weird. Everything about him was heartfelt. It wasn’t that he didn’t want me to visit. I kept on crying anyways, even harder now. The pads of his fingers flicked my tears away. I held onto his wrists like a pair of human handcuffs.

“You’ve done everything for me without even trying,” I hiccuped, “But I couldn’t even keep one promise.”

His hands fell away from my face as he pushed himself off the tree and stood. Mine planted themselves firmly onto the ground to support myself. I glued my eyes right there in the middle of them. Was it shame I felt? Maybe guilt. But to feel so useless to someone who made a home for me without even knowing it - it made my stomach turn. I would’ve thrown up if not for the fact it would’ve landed on his well shined shoes.

“Hey.” I heard him say, snapping me out of my bout of self pity. I blinked up at him. From where I sat, the sun aligned behind his head, outlining Jude in gold.

“Come with me.” He extended his hand like the day we met. I reached out to take it just the same. Through my blurry vision, I thought I saw a halo above him. But it was just my tears obscuring the light. Stumbling to my feet, he steadied me, and we began our walk from one end of the cemetery to the other as the sun considered setting.

He led the way, never letting go of my hand as I trailed behind him, admiring the way the light only ever seemed to shine on him. His smile still never left his face. Sometimes, he would turn to me, and it would grow. The wind blew our clothes around and our hair into our faces. I remember laughing. I remember he spun me like a princess through the poppies that littered the ground once or twice. They danced with us as we trampled through them.

At one point I think he whispered, “You’re everywhere, Poppy Voo.” It may have just been the wind.

It may have also been him using it to drown out his voice.

I choose to believe the latter, but that belief made my tears slide out heavily. Somehow, with every step, it was as if bricks were being broken to smithereens and falling off my shoulders. Somehow, I think that was how he felt - I was simply there, going through it with him.

When we stopped, so did the wind. The trees shivered, then silenced. Jude and I stood side by side, hand in hand, staring at the man-made barrier of fences overtaken by trees, vines, and bushes. There was a curtain of drooping branches. At our feet, a familiar bed of poppies. He pushed the branches aside, and we went under.

With his free hand, he pointed straight ahead, at a bush behind the poppies. “Do you see that?”

“See what?”

“Proof you kept your promise.”

“It’s just a bush.” I looked at him like he was stupid. He kept on pointing with the most determined expression I’d ever seen.

“It’s what’s under the bush.” He gave my hand a squeeze. “Look closer.”

He took another step, and I followed. Hidden in the poppies was a cement base. Eaten by the greenery, but visible between the twigs and shrubs, was a headstone in the shape of a cross where the poppies seemingly began to sprout from.

“Is this -?”

“Yes.”

I tugged my wrist away from him and turned with a stomp in his direction. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I shouted. I’d never raised my voice at him before. His eyes, they saddened, but the smile on his face didn’t budge.

“You still needed a reason to come here,” he babbled. His hands scrambled for purchase in the air, searching for words to explain himself with.

“I would have! If you were here, I would have!” As if that wasn’t obvious enough from the start.

“That’s the thing.” Jude said stiffly. “I didn’t want to go. I wasn’t ready to leave.” He opened his palms, held them out by his sides to show me he had nothing left to say or to give.

“What are you on about?” I groaned. With a roll of my eyes, I tried to snuff out the fire slithering up my throat. This wasn’t the time to have our first fight. My anger could wait for later. The tension left me, and my shoulders dropped. I gave him a sheepish, apologetic grin.

“I’m glad your hard work paid off, Jude. But just because you found it, doesn’t mean I’m not going to visit you.”

Before I turned away with my back to him, stepping towards the grave in the bushes, I saw his mouth move as if he needed to say something important but couldn’t find the words he needed.

“Poppy, I-” he began to speak, but I cut him off on accident.

“I’ve got to admit, though, after all this time I really want to know who you’ve been looking for.” Behind me, he fell silent as my feet crushed the brilliant poppies. I crouched down and said a silent apology to mother nature before my hands tore into the bush, shredding it open and pulling apart the limbs to expose what was written on the cross underneath.

Made of cement, the grave of a poor man, it stood at three and a half feet tall. There was a crack, starting from the top, that led directly down the middle. It was a wonder it hadn't split in half yet. Poppies climbed it’s base, attempting to grow up the sides of it, into the crack. Behind me I heard the willow branches swaying in a breeze that felt like heaven. The name on the cross was faded, some of the letters barely there anymore, but it was legible.

“Patron saint of lost causes, desperate situations…” I muttered my fathers ramblings out of habit. I stayed like that, my fingers hovering above the engraved text, just reading it over and over again.

Bradley St. Jude.

“And hope. Saint Jude.” It hit me. He wasn't missing a last name. He was missing his first.

I turned around to look at Jude, bracing my hand on the cross for balance. “It’s you?” All at once it came crashing down.

The willow branches blew around, but I was the only one under their shade. My heart, heavy as it was, felt elated. Maybe within my chest, room was made for his heart to fit closely next to mine. I stood slowly, looking around in a confused circle.

“Jude?” I called out, but I knew he wasn’t there to answer me. It was a crushing reality when I was met with every noise the cemetery had to offer except for Jude’s laughter or soft voice.

In the sky above, through the branches, I could see a flock of crows. Hundreds. They squawked, flying in the opposite direction; away from the cross, away from the cemetery, away from me. Maybe he was on their wings.

I could see the green hills, but it felt wrong for nobody to be running aimlessly over them. Normally he was there, admiring the poppies or stopping to feel the wind on his face. And now there was just me.

My body moved on its own. Before I knew it, I was on my knees, forehead pressed against the ground as my tears watered the poppies. I cried his name into the earth. I don’t know when my crying lulled me to sleep, but the next time I lifted my head, it was dark outside. As I shed the sleep from my eyes, the first thing I noticed was the way the poppies seemed to bend over me as a form of shelter; how they tickled my head and shoulders.

I brushed the dirt and blades of grass from my forehead and rolled onto my back, staring up numbly at the night sky. The stars blinked back at me. I raised my arm and reached over my head to press my fingers against the cool concrete of Jude’s grave. I imagined he could feel me holding his hand again. I refused to move from the bed of flowers or the cross of Saint Jude.

That is where he left me. That is where he found himself.

I never stopped loving him, even in his absence. And though my heart hangs like a broken highway sign, I know he’d want me to find happiness in his peace. I still visit on days of snow, even if it’s ten feet deep, with no fake flowers, no American flags. Only a single poppy. Just me. And I whisper to him as he sleeps; “You’re everywhere.”

It was never me. It was always Jude, and always will be. I like to think he is watching over me from the sky, the poppies, or the trees.

I am no longer bitter. Maybe I should send a thank you note to Saint Eugene.