Orchids: Flower and Ratty Old T-shirts
Christel Mira
September 19, 2013
Block D
Orchids
Before old age and health complications plagued my nana, I remember a short, stubborn, but clever woman. Her diminutive stature radiated power, not fragility. People perceived her as this headstrong old woman, but to my eyes, she was as noble as a knight. Before her stroke, I remember coming home from school, and I would see her hunched over, working away in her garden. When she was gardening, she replaced her normal clothes, which were puffy blouses, long skirts and dresses, with ratty old t-shirts and shorts. Her black, shiny shoes were replaced with boots covered in mud. She would also wear her straw hat to cover her face from the scorching heat of the sun. Her calluses, like leather; her hands roughened by a lifetime of hard work. Her fat, stubby fingers dug through the black, crumbly dirt, cultivating it. I remember being in awe of what she had created in her backyard. I was so amazed by my nana’s sanctuary. Flowers bordered the outside of her house. The plethora of plant life made her house seem like a greenhouse. The shades of colour were very bold and vibrant. They lit up the place. Flowers, especially orchids, lifted my nana’s spirit. The state of the flowers reflected my nana’s mood. If they were doing poorly, she became boorish and sulky. However, when they were blooming beautifully, she was bright and breezy. Before she got sick, everyday was spent working in her garden. One afternoon, when I was about ten years old, I remember coming home from school. My nana was out on the patio; she must have been waiting for me. She was wearing her gardening clothes, an old, brown t-shirt and matching shorts. As I was stepping out to go and play with my friends, she stopped me with a question. “Inday,” an endearment she called me. “Would you like to help me water the orchids today?” I was astounded, for she had never asked me or any one of my siblings to lend her a hand before. She did with me, and
September 19, 2013
Block D
Orchids
Before old age and health complications plagued my nana, I remember a short, stubborn, but clever woman. Her diminutive stature radiated power, not fragility. People perceived her as this headstrong old woman, but to my eyes, she was as noble as a knight. Before her stroke, I remember coming home from school, and I would see her hunched over, working away in her garden. When she was gardening, she replaced her normal clothes, which were puffy blouses, long skirts and dresses, with ratty old t-shirts and shorts. Her black, shiny shoes were replaced with boots covered in mud. She would also wear her straw hat to cover her face from the scorching heat of the sun. Her calluses, like leather; her hands roughened by a lifetime of hard work. Her fat, stubby fingers dug through the black, crumbly dirt, cultivating it. I remember being in awe of what she had created in her backyard. I was so amazed by my nana’s sanctuary. Flowers bordered the outside of her house. The plethora of plant life made her house seem like a greenhouse. The shades of colour were very bold and vibrant. They lit up the place. Flowers, especially orchids, lifted my nana’s spirit. The state of the flowers reflected my nana’s mood. If they were doing poorly, she became boorish and sulky. However, when they were blooming beautifully, she was bright and breezy. Before she got sick, everyday was spent working in her garden. One afternoon, when I was about ten years old, I remember coming home from school. My nana was out on the patio; she must have been waiting for me. She was wearing her gardening clothes, an old, brown t-shirt and matching shorts. As I was stepping out to go and play with my friends, she stopped me with a question. “Inday,” an endearment she called me. “Would you like to help me water the orchids today?” I was astounded, for she had never asked me or any one of my siblings to lend her a hand before. She did with me, and