It’s not the bindweed that winds between the plants in the garden, twining itself to the fragile leaves, so when you pull it away the poppy breaks too. Maybe the poppy, its tender tenacity, sprouting from wherever it has dropped its nearly invisible seeds. My mother didn’t like music until after my father died when she’d play his records for hours—Chopin, Beethoven, Bach—but not Keith Jarret. She drew the line at jazz. She didn’t like sweets, either, but she’d bake my father intricate Bavarian tortes like he saw in the Trappist catalogue, 12 sticks of butter, 12 layers each as thin as a coin, the icing whipped in a froth of sugar, chocolate, cream. Later, the Alzheimer’s binding her brain, she’d eat Snickers Bars at night, always the small ones. Fun size, said the packaging overflowing her bedside garbage can, but she was no longer laughing.