They Only Need Ice
My mother loves orchids.
She buys them, kills them, and buys them again.
“They only need ice,” she says. She is certain of this. No new soil. No fertilizer. No sun. Just ice.
They die, one by one, and it’s not the cat’s fault; he just sits on the couch and watches them, like a small, furry coroner.
Mom goes through a dozen orchids a year. A dozen small white pots are stacked on the porch, like nested tombstones.
She says they only need ice, but the orchids don’t listen.