The Orchid spoke out to me that day on the shelf.
It was unseen among the many others that crowded around it.
My small fingers worked their way back to touch the skin of its delicate petals.
It was our first embrace.
A mid-day transplant from one to heart to another.
The flowers were softly sprinkled with blameless hues of whites and mauves.
Like us, it was worthy and sound.
We captured its images while it was in its prime.
That night after goulash, we made love and then spoke of the orchid.
It was one embrace of many.
Up until the next time.
With each temporary day, I watched as the orchid changed.
The petals became flaccid and fell like wet snowflakes in April.
It was dependent on more than ice cubes and our breath.
Slowly it turned into a stick in a pot.
In time, our stance and our weaknesses brought us back to be better than we ever were.
And with that the Orchid blossomed once again.
Green leaves began to break through the soil.
It symbolized life, amity, and hope.
Yet, like us, it wasn’t strong enough.
In our most fragile moments and times of letting go, it too gave up.
Tonight at bedtime, I spoke to my children of the Orchid.
We pondered the beauty and strength that once lay within its roots.
The life that once existed when it all came spiraling down.
And how we will always have its images in our minds to reflect on and learn from.
One by one they said their bedtime prayers.
And we embraced.