Adua
by Paul Cameron Brown

Adua had never regarded his life as a pantomime. He wanted so much to please. As a dandelion, he thought of himself as little brother to the sun catching her yellow butter in his eyes.
It came as no small surprise, then, when Adua learned of the world's misgivings toward him. Other flowers, far less nobly constructed, seemed held in such greater esteem. The first shred of evidence of this that Adua was indeed not a bountiful plant came when cattle distained his presence. Later, a smelly herbicide was used in his presence and Adua knew all was not well. Most discomforting, however, was the manner in which other flowers measured up in comparison to Adua. Even flowers that Adua considered quite ordinary seemed, tongue in cheek, to fare much more prettily.
"Adua, Adua as the wind blows so do the poppies grow."
Somehow, Adua heard that refrain while nodding his head in the summer heat. He had grown accustomed to the red blotches that spilled their colour so near to his own colony. To him, their mauve crimsons were gaudy, a shrieking red quite unlike his gentle yellow nectar. He was feeling quite smug that, at least compared to that recluse, his kind were visibly better.
But then, proximity to the poppy family started him thinking. Firstly, unlike his brothers, the poppies were well tended. A dutiful human watered and caressed the plants commenting on the fullness of the pod and the grandeur of their petals. Yet, all Adua could see was a lot of goitered looking droopy herbage. As time went on, it became painfully obvious that the big house and her attendants had established clearly a floral arrangement that did not include dandelions. Adua grudgingly admitted some of his cousins, in careful manicured garden beds, deserved their swooning praise. But not, not the poppies. Why, they were not even solid North Americans like himself. They had no native roots in the solid soil of his pastureland. The poppy was an Oriental import, too foreign to be assimilated. And what of its reputation for buccaneering. In some countries it was illegal even to grow them! Wasn't it worse than the demon weed since its seeds carried the substance necessary for narcotics? Surely, anything brewed of opium should be shunned in real life. Convinced of his moral superiority, Adua could at least comfort himself with the realization his breed was of a fine upstanding kind, even if reduced by circumstance to humble origins. His kind went about their business peacefully enough.
As summer ripened into fall after all dandelions had long stopped blooming, Adua was content to pass his declining months as a stringy plant. It was then Adua came to learn more painful truths stalked the earth. Other flowers were plucked for corsages, arrayed in stately carriages for banquets, had toasts drunk to them and found themselves into the hair of pretty maidens. The most Adua had ever seen his dandelions construed for in the spring was a mere ringlet chain. True, hardy souls brewed a concoction of dandelion wine but what good was that if it was rebuked with taunts of "too bitter," or "how crass,"?
As the cold winds licked about him, gone were the memories of his tussled gold headdress worn a season ago. He was about to commandeer the last of his strength before frost demanded his shop close for the winter. Through progeny produced months before, his kind would spend the cold in tolerable warmth as a seed. Germination was such a marvelous adventure. And what of poppy'? Instead of feeling that burst of speed and sense of the unknown flitting across creation as he had like a parachutist ages ago, her brood had to stay bundled up in a pod. How dull, thought Adua.
Then, as Adua prepared to tuck himself in for the winter, life handed him but one more setback. It was nearing the eleventh of November, and a curious custom was presenting itself. To be sure, Adua had seen real flowers adorn lapels of both men and women as well as bridal wreathes of the most exquisite colours. Yet, never had he seen a poppy, living or otherwise, at the centre of adoration. He was mortified now to see imitation ones worn as a symbol of remembrance, John MacRae notwithstanding. How could she symbolize the dead of Canadian wars when he, Adua, was a native son? Why, if you wanted to get technical about it, even his name contained reference to a lion and to his mind that meant courage. He was perplexed to see how Britain, with all her reliance on that beast, had not seen fit to incorporate his kind as the founding race should have done into her coat of arms. The Scots had their order of the garter and a thistle, of all things, was emblematic to that northerly land. Why not a dandelion even if it were a bit of a dandy all dressed in that, shudder, colour of cowardice, yellow'? People were so emotional choosing a red flower simply because its colour reminded them of shed blood.
Adua was hurt to the quick and could bring no comfort to himself either in hope of future aerial flights or the prospect of his greens being eaten next season as tasty helpings.
There was nothing to do but sport a brown coat, suggestive of the treatment the world had seen to give him.