Volume XXXI
Page 13
Longing By: Mohan Viswanathan
He does not hear the birds on that Saturday morning when he wakes up. He used to hear them. At the end of winter, just before it was spring. Looking out the window while drinking tea, the bright pink flowers on the orchid catch his eye. The specks of deep maroon deep within the flower. The bright yellow pollen grains. The purple variegations on the petals that look like capillaries filled with blood. All the photographs of those flowers that he took are stacked away somewhere. He cannot remember where they are now. How long has it been since this orchid bloomed? Too long for him to recall. The sheen of the green, new shoots on the orchid in the pot nearby seems appealing. Is it ready to bloom? How long a wait is it going to be?