House of Orchids

In the house of orchids, fragrant air hangs heavy; scents of vanilla, honey, and wisps of rosewater around every turn.

Three separate houses for the blooms, and three separate golden retrievers to guard them, though the dogs spend most hours lazing on their sides near the glazed pots, tongues happily panting out of their smiling mouths.

In a babbling coy pond in the first house, fiery fish swim unaware of the Spanish moss feathering downwards, nearly dipping the edge with their curled prongs.

Oncidiums are Rorschach inky in flats spread along the counters. Their markings bleed gold and purple onto pillowed white. Lemon threads edged along magenta blossoms. Green and maroon spiky black widows. Each variance of the orchid looks alien sitting next to the next; each one more exotic and more surprising than the last.

Some sprout fat green bulbs like onions at the base, their leaves thick and flowerless. Others hang in wooden boxes; their white and green roots snaking out low and long through the draining gaps, and brush lightly along the backs of buyers as they navigate through the man-made jungle of the greenhouse.

Tiny buttercup wings in white and orange smell like honeysuckle. Near them are Miltoniopis hybrids, monstrous and vivid.

For the price of a muddled mojito, I select a modest plant; with lavender tinged petals and a sturdy stalk. It's placed into a brown box, nestled in the back of a car.

I take it home to New York, away from the comfort and safety of timed sprinklers and monitored temperature, into my small and shared apartment. It's a little momento of the weekend and the outside world, of seasons and change to come.

It will be a little sanctuary, sectioned off on a table in the living room.

If only I can remember to water it.