August 31st, 2009
It is amazing how my orchid has managed to survive everything that I put it through. When it was given to me, I was informed that the instructions were incredibly simple; water every two weeks, indirect sunlight, keep between sixty and seventy five degrees Fahrenheit. ’Keep on a soft rock bed, water seldom, and simulate a cooling period by setting it outside for a week or so in late March’ was never mentioned. So, I made a few mistakes. The worst to date, I think, was possibly over watering it by making sure that I faithfully watered it every fourteen days, right on the dot. One March the weather did not get above thirty five degrees. I don’t think that did it much good either.
I envision the health of my orchid to be directly related to the health of the man who gave it to me. He is currently stationed overseas, and while technology has made the world a little smaller, conflicts are never conducive to healthy communication. To overcome the sensations of helplessness and restlessness, I fret over his love-orchid (which, in more cheerful times I would associate with the ‘love-fern’ from How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days). I have even taken to hanging my Native American-made dream catcher over it. Bad dreams and ill-wishes I can handle, but I am fairly sure that they may prove to be too much for my little plant. The soft brown feathers of the dream catcher, the same shade as his eyes, just barely brush the tallest stem. I like to think it’s a comforting gesture.
I would say, for being four years old, the orchid is looking pretty good. A fresh sprout popped up several months ago, and has already passed up of two of its brothers. Hopefully it will bloom next spring, as it has been two years since I have seen it dressed up with its purple blossoms.
In addition to hanging my dream catcher, I have taken to wearing his old Boston College sweatshirt for comfort. Like the orchid, I fret over this too, as its bright white fabric is easily stained. Every time I clean it I worry that his soft scent will fade with the smear of food or dirt, but despite its many washes, I still believe it smells like him. It is truly amazing that the scent of a person I haven’t seen in a year and a half survives better in my care than a little plant. Perhaps he sneaks across the several thousand miles at night and wears it. I often think that maybe if I wear it to bed, he will come and wrap me in his arms while I sleep. It might appear childish, but those little notions are what keep me going day after day.
I have taken to praying more too. I cling to the gold cross around my neck as if it were a rosary and pray to God. I know a little faith token bears no weight in the survival or salvation of either of us, but I hold onto it and pray. I pray for the plant, I pray for the man. I try to ignore the concept that the cross was a brutal execution device. Usually once the thought comes though, it does not tend to leave. At that moment, I pray for me too. Then I go check on my orchid, stroke the soft feathers of my dream catcher, and snuggle up in my white-as-snow Boston College sweatshirt that smells of him and turn on the TV.
~Brittanie V.
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