Ode to an orchid

Back in 2018, toward the end of the summer, I found out I got a job at a TV station in Charlotte, North Carolina — I'd be moving in a matter of weeks. I'd been living with my parents at the time, but eagerly awaiting my next steps. To celebrate the hire and the upcoming move, my parents got me a gift: a beautiful, delicate purple orchid. I kept it on my dresser while still in Virginia, then on move-in day, I put it in the cupholder of my car so I could keep an eye on it on the way down to Charlotte.

Months later, the petals fell off for the season. I made sure it was in a good spot in a windowsill with great lighting and I kept giving it water for months on end. But a year went by, I moved twice, and the orchid never came back. The leaves seemed to be staying strong, but the flower itself seemed to be a goner. I tried not to take it personally — I didn't let it become a metaphor despite the significance of when I got the plant — but I was bummed. When I moved to Charlotte, I had two plants. Now I have around 13. It was sad to think one of the first plants I had wasn't coming back. But still, I kept watering it.

Then the other week, Ben was watering our many plants when he gently removed the orchid and it's packed soil from the small pot it lived in. It looked like it was trying to grow, he said, but it needed more space. He took an extra vase that we had, one that was a little larger, and rehomed the forgotten plant.

Within a week, there were blossoms.

As of writing this, I count five buds and one bright purple flower. I sent my mom a picture. She said it looked happy.

Sometimes, when all hope is lost, things just need a little extra time. And sometimes, they need more room to grow.

Or, if you're an orchid, maybe you need both.