Hubie’s Orchids
When I think of my dad, I think of an orchid. A flower that is strong, tall, and beautiful. It can look intimidating at times but inside is soft and gentle. A hard outside but a soft being. My dad could be tough. But that toughness stemmed from the love and compassion he had for us and those around him. My dad had an eye for finding beauty in the little things in life. His room was filled with broken-off coral from the bottom of the ocean that he would dive for in tropical places and bring back home to admire.
I remember when he got sick and walking became a new struggle for him. The one thing that my dad would always do for as long as he could, was walk around my house from room to room checking in on the orchids and admiring them. He would delicately drop a cold ice cube into the pot and watch it dissolve. He would then grab his little pink pig watering can and drizzle exactly one small serving pitcher size of water over each leaf and into the roots in such a delicate manner. I don't remember how much water was used, but I knew that it was always enough when it hit the line of the pitcher. My dad always needed exactness in his life. Things had a perfect way of being done. This kept my life, our life, and the house I grew up in a harmonious and safe space to be in. I have definitely had this need for perfection rub off on me. When life gets to be too much for me, I think about the orchids and their routine. The routine my father shared with them and me. When there was chaos in our lives, the orchids were a refuge.
My dad would have the biggest smile on his face every few months when a new bud would appear and keep blooming. His big bright white teeth showing, his dimples illuminating and his lips curling in.
My dad was my biggest supporter and always gave hugs that were as warm as a cup of tea. When my parents left for Europe, I was in charge of the orchids. I got weekly texts making sure that the orchids were still alive and well taken care of: Stella did you water the orchids? I want to come home to my flowers. I would always respond with yes, it's already taken care of, don't worry they’re in great shape. Every Sunday I would make my way throughout my house to complete my dad’s orchid ritual. I felt helpless when it came to his sickness, as there was nothing I could do to take his pain away. All I could do was continue caring for the flowers he loved.
When my dad passed away, the one flower that kept popping up in our house was an orchid. They were constantly being gifted by others. It was known that he loved his orchids and probably deep down somewhere carried those qualities.
They were everywhere. White orchids lived in almost every room of my house, with their long stems and soft white petals. A softness that you felt as soon as you were by them. An indescribable comfort. It felt like his presence was still with us even though he was not physically there anymore. A way for him to be in our home and watch over my family and me. Now I look at the orchids and can only think of the memories with my dad. The orchids have now become a part of me.