My Last Good Thing
The last thing that he gave me was an orchid. At least the last good thing. He gave me so many other things. A snake, a pitbull, a $2,000 gas and electric bill, and a misdemeanor. Things that I’m still trying to recover from. I’ll write more about those one day when I’m brave enough. Today is not that day.
But the orchid was the last gift. It was a birthday gift in a pretty bag on the nightstand when I got back from out of town with an assortment of other thoughtful things, and since he was not thoughtful often, I celebrated it. By that time, I had given up, mostly, on receiving anything from him that resembled love. But I was thought of, and on that day, it was close enough.
By that summer, I left the place we had shared, and, outside of all of the things I had to carry, had gotten rid of every reminder that there was a such thing as he and I. But while I had never once in my life been able to keep a plant alive, I kept the orchid.
The months following the breakup were that soul-scorching kind. Never, even after my divorce, had I had an experience that had left me so entirely gutted. Sometimes I was lost, sometimes empty, sometimes angry, sometimes all of them and then sometimes none—those were the moments where I was just numb. Sometimes it took what felt like every available breath to get up, feed the kids, walk the dog, and take my remaining breaths to take care of me.
But I took care of the orchid. By summer, she no longer sported the flowers that she wore back in March. By then, she was a naked stem flanked by a few leaves, but I named her Opal, and every week, without fail, I followed the care instructions and put two ice cubes on top of her soil. I opened the blinds before I left for work every morning to let her bask in the sun. I would greet her every day and touch her leaves.
I noticed that when the sun came through the blinds, she would bend toward it, so I took her into a brighter room. And then she began to grow. And before long, she once again gave me flowers.
Years later, today, she is still alive. Sometimes, she gets quiet. Her petals dry and fall. But whenever she wants to, she blooms.
The love that lives in me now is rebellion. It still blooms. It is my last good thing.