On the day she died, we tenderly gathered up her belongings from the care home and brought them out to the car—tears streaming down our faces, matching the light rain falling from the sky.
I took her plants, the ones I had watered each week that were growing on her window ledge, looking out into the shared garden, beautifully blooming through all those hard days. I don’t know why, but the things that were alive with her, I needed to keep close.
One of the plants was an orchid—the one flower that I don’t really love because it’s so complicated and temperamental. But I brought it home, moved it around the house for months and faithfully gave it the recommended weekly ice cubes. No matter what I did, though, for the past two years it stayed dormant. It sat there in sadness, unwilling to bloom, and although I was tempted to get rid of it, I just couldn’t.
It was hers.
And I kept hoping maybe it would grow, and I kept hoping I would grow too.
Then, early last month something amazing started to happen. A stem began to grow up into the kitchen sky and tiny little buds appeared all over, and I watched in awe as all the blooms came out, one by one.
And today, exactly two years from the day we said goodbye, the last little bud opened up on that quiet orchid on my kitchen window sill.
It was waiting for today, I guess, to encourage me to keep looking for gifts, because I’m always yearning to find them. I’ve kept searching for joy because deep grief has often reminded me of great love, and I’ve worked hard to keep moving ahead.
Like her quiet orchid that suddenly decided to bloom.
And maybe now, I will too.