the orchid, as seen from a kitchen windowsill in suburban New Jersey
I was reading about a man on a business trip, freshly arrived at the Cinnamon Hotel
in the capital city, whom colleagues are now eulogizing in the company newsletter.
A celebrity chef and her daughter are also among the dead; another lost his wife
and three of their four children. I am hunched before the screen, dumbly lifting a
slice of toast to my lips as heavy fonts explode and the toll mounts. Which is perhaps
why, later in the morning, I am astonished to discover the resurrection of blooms,
slung across each stem like a teenager, almost defiant with beauty. What can we make
of such of infuriating contradictions? I can only stand there in a muddle of relief
and sorrow and fury and joy as a warm spring enters in carefree little drifts,
scattering crumbs from the table in every direction.