My poppy was a gift from my son, who accompanied me on a couple of my frequent trips to the Western Front.
When it arrived, I was moved by the fact that it was in pieces and needed reassembling. It reminded me that so many young men returned damaged, often beyond repair. In the end, it would never reassemble satisfactorily, so is displayed with its component parts together with a small pile of shrapnel collected near High Wood on the Somme. It seems to mean more like that.