I remember her most vividly in her backyard:  She has bright yellow gloves on, a shovel and a big, dark green watering can in her hands, and—of course, glamorous as she was—a tan sunhat on her head. Growing up, I, like my grandma Nadia, had a watering can: a silver elephant-shaped one, water coming out of its trunk.

The June air is hot, humid. There are vines strung along her backyard’s shady, green awning, rust at its edges. My grandpa, Kostek, is sitting under it. Some days, we’d play Uno or poker betting on spare change; my sister, Violet, is only eight or nine, but—clever as she is—wins every game. Today, my grandfather is birdwatching; he’s wearing a navy baseball cap, “Brooklyn” embroidered on it— a cap I’ve kept since. His dog, Sparky—a short and small Jack Russell mutt—is sitting loyally by his side, and has since he was a puppy. My grandma and grandpa loved animals. My mom recalls her childhood years where they’d recuse dogs, cats—even birds. There is potted greenery in every corner, luscious leaves spilling over. Dirt is scattered everywhere, but my grandma is quick to sweep it away. It rained earlier; now, small puddles lie still. The sun is setting, cradled between buildings and lighting our porch golden. My dad is sitting on a chair, his black, rectangular glasses over his eyes and a newspaper in hand. My mom is grilling, preparing to serve us hot dogs and hamburgers, a cigarette balanced between her lips. Violet and my youngest sister, Chloe, are huddling around a strawberry bush, picking the ripe fruit.

My grandma was a gentle woman. She was born and raised in Poland; as a young girl, Soviets invaded her home village, deporting her to Siberia—but, she persevered. She endured every adversary she came across, and all throughout, she was as loving and caring as ever. She was strong, but physically, small and lean. Her hair was light brown—dyed, so as never to let her grays show—and when sunlight came, it looked almost like honey. I have her brown eyes. Over hers, she wore clear, oval glasses. She spoke English well, but Polish words would usually slip in between. My grandma loved her husband, her children and grandchildren, God, and gardening— especially poppies. Every spring, I remember bright red ones bloomed.

She died on June 1, 2021. I knew she was ill. I remember her living room—lights low, silent. Growing up, my cousin and I might have been watching Spongebob (much to my grandma’s annoyance—“These shows are rotting your brains,” she’d say) or playing a board game, but now, she was laying down—eyes closed, lips cracking, hair thinning; she was pale as ever and so skinny you could see her bones. A looming dread had swarmed me like rolling gray rainclouds when I realized she was dying, any day now. Even so, when my mom answered her phone one sunny Tuesday morning and began to cry, I was paralyzed.

Our whole neighborhood, it seemed, came to her services to grant condolences and share memories. Flowers were everywhere: orchids in arrangements shaped like crosses and accompanied by notecards reading “I’m sorry for your loss,” lilies in vases, and at her grave, roses handed to each of us to toss onto her casket. Returning to her house was strange—it was empty, quiet. The air was cool, yet heavy. The shelves were collecting dust. Her garden was abandoned: pots cracking and broken, roots drying, leaves drooping, petals graying—my elephant watering can had cobwebs. Two days later, poppies emerged in our garden.

I miss my grandma dearly. I wish she were here, now. I wish she could have seen me go to college and grow up. I’ll always be mourning her loss, I know. When my grandma died, I lost a pure love, a light. However, her love hasn’t disappeared—it’s everywhere. It’s in every morning’s cheery birdsong. It’s warm sunlight as it touches my skin when clouds part. It’s dewdrops on grass blades. My grandma’s love and her memory will live on in every springtime’s blooming poppies.