Grief's Not Cancelled
I bought a tiny orchid shortly after we brought my mom home on hospice. They day we learned we could bust her out of Our Least Favorite Place (the hospital), I left in a flurry, desperately looking for sunflowers anywhere. For the first time I could remember in my time with Trader Joe's, sunflowers were out of stock, crushing my vision to fill my mom's room with sunflowers before she was discharged. I ended up with five shoddy, overpriced bunches from Home Depot.
As the sunflowers began to fade, I tried to find pretty things to replace them with. Sunflowers were, annoyingly, frustratingly, still out of stock. Nothing seemed right. Nothing seemed like it was enough, as if bringing home her favorite flowers would give us extra time together or ease her pain. Even so, I brought this tiny orchid to her, because I thought she would like the pineapple-y pot. The fact that she wouldn't get to actually look at it was irrelevant.
I kept the tiny orchid after my mom was gone. I don't remember why. I am not particularly fond of orchids, but I still felt crushed as the flowers fell, one by one. Soon, I was left with two bare sticks and some leaves poking out of this pineapple-y pot. It didn't exactly look dead though, so I kept it and continued to water it, removing one branch when it turned a funny color.
Months later, in the middle of a pandemic, my grief all askew and wild and untamed due to the fact that my routine had been blown to bits, this happened.
That one remaining branch began to bloom. And, a new one had appeared, promising to follow suit.
As the sunflowers began to fade, I tried to find pretty things to replace them with. Sunflowers were, annoyingly, frustratingly, still out of stock. Nothing seemed right. Nothing seemed like it was enough, as if bringing home her favorite flowers would give us extra time together or ease her pain. Even so, I brought this tiny orchid to her, because I thought she would like the pineapple-y pot. The fact that she wouldn't get to actually look at it was irrelevant.
I kept the tiny orchid after my mom was gone. I don't remember why. I am not particularly fond of orchids, but I still felt crushed as the flowers fell, one by one. Soon, I was left with two bare sticks and some leaves poking out of this pineapple-y pot. It didn't exactly look dead though, so I kept it and continued to water it, removing one branch when it turned a funny color.
Months later, in the middle of a pandemic, my grief all askew and wild and untamed due to the fact that my routine had been blown to bits, this happened.
That one remaining branch began to bloom. And, a new one had appeared, promising to follow suit.
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