Valentines

The day you broke my heart you had surprised me with an orchid. I remember it being so small that its slender stem had to be supported by a dowel, cradled in a plastic planter no bigger than my palm. It was so delicately designed, the petals brushed with the most beautiful color pink I had seen. I was so scared of killing it, I told you. You laughed and assured that you wouldn't let me, that it was easy to nurture into something lovely. You pointed to the tag, noting the directions for its care, and I smiled.

We spent the evening in your kitchen, cooking that same pasta recipe we had made so many times before. And as the room permeated with the smell of wine and bread, we laughed at ourselves. The picture I took of you, still etched into my mind, standing over that stovetop, smiling at your own jokes. How funny it was to love you and fall into your words, hanging onto every sentence like you had crafted the conversation just for me. As we slipped into our stupor, you cradled me like I had cradled that orchid, just as delicate, and just as gentle.

You told me to leave that same night, and I departed too quickly to remember your gift. The small orchid, still sitting on your desk corner as I walked through your doorway. But you had hurt me, and I wanted nothing more than to sink into my own stomach, twisted and shaking with grief. I believed that as long as I didn’t look back, there was nothing to remember you by.

Though, I still wonder if that orchid is on your desk side. If you still take care of it like you had told me to, and if you still believe in its promised beauty and brilliance. Part of me hopes that you do- that you think of me as you care for its fragile presence. And one day, when it is full of life and stronger, you’ll return it to me again.

That Which We Cannot See

When my sister was younger, she used to build fairy houses for our backyard. She would nestle her creations under fallen branches and underbrush, tucking them wherever only she and her fantasy friends could find. In her mind, my mother’s leftover fabric scraps were doormats, cotton balls were beds, and battery-powered tealights were miniature fireplaces. Although childish, there was a certain magic in her innocence, watching her enthusiastically craft one shelter after the other, caring for the woodland creatures that, in her mind, were as real as those shoeboxes she built. Even now, I wonder if they are still there, overgrown with weeds but remnants of a compassion only my undoubting sister could extend.

The more I talk with others my age, the more I realize how much commonality we, as children, shared growing up. We’d build blanketed fortresses for our dolls, practice supper with our imaginary friends, and tuck our beloved stuffed animals into bed for the night before lying down ourselves. And as much as our parents attempted to sympathize with our playtime, they never understood how real the world was through our eyes: how ambitious our imaginations became as a result of our wonder. We weren’t concerned with taxes or down payments, only nurturing that which was real: the fairies in our backyards.

The philosophy that we are to care for that which we cannot necessarily see is such a universal purity amongst the global youth and an inspiration to the ideology that we are to look after what we love. As real as the fairies and dragons were in our minds as children, we eventually came to realize that no such creatures really existed, and so, we stopped constructing houses, leaving trails of food, and studying the books that made us believe. In a similar fashion, it is easy for us to forget that which does not impact our lives on a daily basis. If we cannot experience it on a dramatic level it is easy for us to dismiss it as another part of our imagination.

I guarantee many of us have never witnessed a polar glacier tumble into the sea, immigrants forcibly dragged from their families, children starved to death where food and water is not a luxury, or countless species pushed from their habitats by mass logging. Yet climate change, socio-political disparity, world hunger, and deforestation are all very real issues that exist simultaneously as some of the most serious problems in our world. Just because we do not see it does not mean they are not real, and just because we cannot always comprehend should not turn us away from extending compassion.

We are still children, just older versions of the innocence we embodied. And although we could not always touch those creatures in our backyards and bathtubs, we still cared. We ought to offer tenderness the same way we used to, even if our lives are not directly altered in monumental ways, believing and trusting that such issues do exist beyond our personal borders.

Becoming

Blossoming forth is the woman I have envisioned

A beautiful recognition of my metamorphosis

My passion and ultimatum, the beacon I am approaching

As I extend my arms, in reach of her I realize she reflects the gesture

A mirror of myself, a single entity.

And she whispers softly,

How beautiful it is to know that you are already everything you are becoming;

That the light at the end of the tunnel will be from the same sun under which you entered.

So sweet is the promise of our destination, but even more, the knowledge gained.

For I would rather call the journey my home,

Along which I have scattered my heart like seeds across a prairie.

Revelation singed into my mind, driving me from the flames of stupor.

I am to bloom where I have been planted

Tucked within the footprints of yesterday.

Looking back only to remind myself of how far I have come,

And to reach out to that younger version

Embracing the innocence and grandeur of growth.