over?”
“Here.” She handed me a pot with a tall, slender stem, and smiled at me as if she were a fairy godmother granting me my wish. “It’s yours. I’m giving it to you. I’ve been meaning to come by for weeks now,” she said, “to bring flowers.”
“Is that right?”
“I hear your children out my bedroom window in the mornings.”
“We’re loud, I know,” I said, embarrassed.
“No, they’ve brought me joy. This street was too quiet before.” And then she inched closer like she was going to share street gossip with me, of which I knew none. “I had seven. Can you believe it?”
“Seven kids?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head like she didn’t believe it herself.“Five girls, two boys,” she said. “Of course they’re grown now, but I don’t know how I did it back then.”
“You’re still smiling,” I said. “What’s your secret?”
She waved me off. “I don’t have any secrets, and there are no remedies that make it all easier. I remember walking around in circles, like a chicken with its head cut off, thinking I had lost my mind.”
“That’s me,” I said. “Going to the kitchen, forgetting why I went there in the first place.”
“I do that all the time,” she said. “I’m in my eighties, my children grown, and I hardly know where I’m going or what I’m doing, can you believe it? I don’t know what’s worse—having too much work in one’s garden or not enough.”
“So what is this?” I asked, holding up the potted stem she had given me.
“An orchid, a cattleya orchid. It should flower any day—once it adapts to your home and feels no stress. Orchids dislike stressful environments.”
I let out a laugh, wondering if she had a candle in her bag I might exchange it for—a more practical welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift. “If orchids dislike stress, then it won’t stand a chance at flowering with me.”
“You know anything about them?” she asked.
“Not a thing,” I proudly replied. “Just that they’re weak, delicate, and die easily. You’re talking to a woman who can’t grow a Chia Pet.”
“Then I better not forget to give you this, wherever it is,” she said, rummaging through the large straw bag parked at her feet.
“What?” I asked.
“This,” she said, pulling out a yellow envelope and handing it to me.
“When I give orchids to people, I like to also give tips on how to care for them properly.”
I made a face but it wasn’t strong enough. She put the envelope in my hand despite my not wanting to care for an orchid, or any flower. To me, flowers were something you put in a jar with a bit of water and look at every time you walk by until the day they die, and then you dump the smelly mess in the trash, wash out the jar, and do it all again the following year when someone gives you flowers again.
I looked at the envelope she gave to me, with handwritten bulleted points all over it.
Cattleya orchids need fresh air but don’t like drafts. You might keep a fan on for yours. I suggest low speed. You’ll know it’s thirsty by looking at its leaves. And keep it on a sturdy table. Orchids don’t like to wobble .
I stopped reading, having no intention of catering to a finicky flower. My children were finicky enough.
“Oh, did I forget,” she dared to add, “that yours—a cattleya—prefers a view of the sunrise.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.
“I know it sounds like a lot, but we could learn a thing or two from orchids.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, having no interest in learning from a flower, especially a spoiled one.
“Well, there are more varieties of orchids than any other flower in the world, and you’ve got to know which variety you’re dealing with in order to care for it properly.”
“And what is there to learn from that?”
“One must be aware of who she is before she can flourish.”
“Interesting,” I said, raising my eyebrow.
“It is, once you contemplate it awhile,”
“Here.” She handed me a pot with a tall, slender stem, and smiled at me as if she were a fairy godmother granting me my wish. “It’s yours. I’m giving it to you. I’ve been meaning to come by for weeks now,” she said, “to bring flowers.”
“Is that right?”
“I hear your children out my bedroom window in the mornings.”
“We’re loud, I know,” I said, embarrassed.
“No, they’ve brought me joy. This street was too quiet before.” And then she inched closer like she was going to share street gossip with me, of which I knew none. “I had seven. Can you believe it?”
“Seven kids?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head like she didn’t believe it herself.“Five girls, two boys,” she said. “Of course they’re grown now, but I don’t know how I did it back then.”
“You’re still smiling,” I said. “What’s your secret?”
She waved me off. “I don’t have any secrets, and there are no remedies that make it all easier. I remember walking around in circles, like a chicken with its head cut off, thinking I had lost my mind.”
“That’s me,” I said. “Going to the kitchen, forgetting why I went there in the first place.”
“I do that all the time,” she said. “I’m in my eighties, my children grown, and I hardly know where I’m going or what I’m doing, can you believe it? I don’t know what’s worse—having too much work in one’s garden or not enough.”
“So what is this?” I asked, holding up the potted stem she had given me.
“An orchid, a cattleya orchid. It should flower any day—once it adapts to your home and feels no stress. Orchids dislike stressful environments.”
I let out a laugh, wondering if she had a candle in her bag I might exchange it for—a more practical welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift. “If orchids dislike stress, then it won’t stand a chance at flowering with me.”
“You know anything about them?” she asked.
“Not a thing,” I proudly replied. “Just that they’re weak, delicate, and die easily. You’re talking to a woman who can’t grow a Chia Pet.”
“Then I better not forget to give you this, wherever it is,” she said, rummaging through the large straw bag parked at her feet.
“What?” I asked.
“This,” she said, pulling out a yellow envelope and handing it to me.
“When I give orchids to people, I like to also give tips on how to care for them properly.”
I made a face but it wasn’t strong enough. She put the envelope in my hand despite my not wanting to care for an orchid, or any flower. To me, flowers were something you put in a jar with a bit of water and look at every time you walk by until the day they die, and then you dump the smelly mess in the trash, wash out the jar, and do it all again the following year when someone gives you flowers again.
I looked at the envelope she gave to me, with handwritten bulleted points all over it.
Cattleya orchids need fresh air but don’t like drafts. You might keep a fan on for yours. I suggest low speed. You’ll know it’s thirsty by looking at its leaves. And keep it on a sturdy table. Orchids don’t like to wobble .
I stopped reading, having no intention of catering to a finicky flower. My children were finicky enough.
“Oh, did I forget,” she dared to add, “that yours—a cattleya—prefers a view of the sunrise.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.
“I know it sounds like a lot, but we could learn a thing or two from orchids.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, having no interest in learning from a flower, especially a spoiled one.
“Well, there are more varieties of orchids than any other flower in the world, and you’ve got to know which variety you’re dealing with in order to care for it properly.”
“And what is there to learn from that?”
“One must be aware of who she is before she can flourish.”
“Interesting,” I said, raising my eyebrow.
“It is, once you contemplate it awhile,”
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