• By Grace Schuck (she/her)
  • Art “Riverside Poppies” by Julian Davila-Morquecho (he/him)

After a brush with death by pneumonia at 10, finding the love of his life at 20, and escaping the draft in orthodontics school in Michigan; my grandfather, our Ohio Cardinal, moved to San Francisco for a few years and fell in love all over again.

From then on in every moment he chased that rush of the West Coast: one convertible after another, hoping for enough Ohio sun to put the top down; one scuba trip after another, dreaming of sparkling water and cool breezes, longing for sand and red cheeks and squinting eyes.

When I was born, and then Ben and then Sam, my grandfather became Poppy, “like the flower.” He and Gamma began renting their apartment near the grandkids, first for 5 months of the year, then 6, then 7. He was a fully-fledged citizen of CA and worked very hard to prove it: he grabbed stickers and coasters from everywhere we went to bring back to Ohio proudly; he took us to Disneyland every chance we got, and always managed to come home with a new pin; he bought any shirt that said “CA” somewhere on it and wore it in San Diego and Rome alike.

With little effort, Poppy became essential to California for everyone he met. Every staff member at our favorite restaurants, all the hygienists at our orthodontist, our hairstylist, and Pop’s favorite pharmacist from Target, wept when they heard of his passing.

In his absence, the state aches for his presence.

California feels much less whole without him: his tight hugs; his full laugh; his Donald Duck impression; his fake Italian (he’d speak to anyone who passed our table at Buca); the typed page of jokes he’d bring with him to dinner; the homemade memorials for his favorite pets taped to his computer stand.

California feels much quieter without him: “Gracie, can you check my hair for me?” “Go Blue!” “What’d ya say, sonny?” “It’s not a bald spot, it’s just lightly!”

California looks much emptier without him: his chunky gold bracelet, rings, and chain; the red birth mark on the palm of his hand; his glass of red wine in hand the second the clock struck 4; the Betty Boop sticker next to his Harbor Surfboards sticker on his baby blue Prius; his gaze as he walked with his hands clasped behind his back, or pinky-in-pinky with Gamma.

I still hear his whistle when the Santa Anas rustle the tress at my parents’ home, or expect to see his car parked in our driveway when I turn onto our street. I am still waiting for my first legal drink in a Las Vegas bar with him, for an email with a cute animal video, or a goodnight text with no less than 10 emojis.

I am still learning to make the state feel like home without him, constantly looking down at the tattoo on my left bicep and remembering our Ohio Cardinal, my California Poppy. ▲