Orchids The Orchid sat on our windowsill in a white pot. After an initial showy bloom, it withered away to a brown stump and David wanted to bin it. I stopped him though. Instead I gave the plant a name – Artemis - and I watered her hopefully. I felt sure there was something growing deep down in the dirt. I noticed the new shoots on her around the time David started disappearing. First his toes went, then his fingers. A week later, Artemis sprouted new leaves - thick, green and glossy – and overnight David’s hands and feet were gone. His legs went in pieces, ankle to knee, and knee to groin and by then Artemis was in bud, her stalks pregnant with scented promise. As she birthed each of her floral offspring, parts of David’s arms ceased to exist. And then one day he came home from work just a torso and a head. New leaves kept sprouting, new shoots thrust up through the soil, and David suffered in parallel. I went to bed one night with just his eyes next to me on the pillow and when I woke up, I wasn’t surprised to see even they’d gone. It’s just Artemis and me now. She’s broken out of that little white ceramic pot. Her foliage covers the windowsill and her roots tangle and twine in the plughole of the sink. Her flowers weave themselves into the slats of the blind. Turns out, orchids need regular feeding.
Rebecca Williams
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