grief, purchase an orchid, a peperomia, a succulent. These three queens
will save you and serve you, even though you are the peasant in this picture.
You will check their light requirements, place them in the proper place—
the orchid in a bright spot, on the side of your desk so you can watch over
her, the peperomia close but also in shade, and the succulent with its face
at the window like a child who yearns to play. You were once a child,
you remember that now, how someone once made sure you were fed,
that you had just the right amount of water. You spend your days touching
the soil of these three plants, tucked so nicely in their pots. You pick the dead
flowers off the orchid stem. You look for signs of burning. You worry
over who will take care of them when you’re gone when really you’ve already
been left once, and you know it will happen again. You are meant to be
the one left standing. You tell yourself to look for signs of trouble—drooping,
fading, browning—but the truth is it’s easy to miss a sign until it’s too late. How
well you’ve earned this badge of knowledge. You serve these three queens
in this easy sovereignty. You let them reign over a little piece of your heart
because so much of it has already been plundered. The nights are getting colder
and you wonder at how well these three wait for the next day’s heat and light
to survive.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 4.
Shuly Cawood is the author of the memoir, The Going and Goodbye (Platypus Press, 2017). Her creative writing has been published in places such as The Rumpus, Zone 3, San Pedro River Review, Prime Number Magazine, and The Louisville Review. She received the 2014 Betty Gabehart Prize, and her website and blog can be found at www.shulycawood.com.
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