Orchid

– I continue shivering. The darkness persists. The moon is swallowed by dusk. The trees stretch toward the dim light thousands of miles away. The few remaining leaves tremble in this exertion. A couple lose hope and fall in the darkness toward the grave. I sit there, on the balcony. No glasses, no throw, no sweat pants, with a book. With the book, but without light. It is the first time I think about it. I wonder how she read on dark winter evenings. It was winter when she lost her enchantment. I miss that. That first year. Her enchantment. The games of hide and find played as the sun burned orange and fell behind the horizon, scattering light in and out of the different corners of the house as it went. It’s a big house.
I shiver and there is no burnt orange nor remnants of, at this late hour. Leaves turn in their grave as they are swept back and forth across the yard. I sit in the dark of night, the trees stretching and shimmering in the dim reflection of the blue moon, far off in the sky. The wind turns pages in the book, and I turn pages. It does not matter, whether they turn by the wind or by my hand, in this dark, I cannot make out the words. And so, I close the book and set it down. I shiver and think about her. Think about how she would sit there in the dark of evening and turn pages. How even after I had come home and extinguished the headlights, she would remain out on the balcony for a while. I would take that time, then, to walk through the house. It is a big house. And I would trace the trail of her day. The scent of her and fragrant rose, that perfect mixture, would still linger. It made me smile to imagine all the things she accomplished though the day, in each room. I would always end in the kitchen, even though the lingering scent of her would not lead me there. But that is where she would meet me, and we would sit and dine together. She would tell me about her day, confirm some of the moments I had imagined, some of which made me lighter, and I would put away the others for my next walk about the house. I would tell her about my day. Hers was always so much more interesting and creative. Sometimes, when I would turn to pour more wine, or to pour us coffee at the end of our meal, she would disappear. It always made me laugh. I would leave behind the unpoured upturned glasses, the half filled coffee cups, and breathe in the trail which would always lead me to where she had run off to. More often than not, I would find her curled up on the couch in the upstairs loft space, staring out toward the balcony from under the comforter. I would join her, and we would spend the remaining day in each other’s warmth.

There is a point in each night that is most pronounced in winter, when the last embers of the day are finally snuffed and the breeze of night loses some intensity and the night cools. I notice the transpiring of this moment, as my teeth join in the shivering of my torso. She would never have stayed on the balcony this late. Even on a night when I hadn’t had the opportunity to extinguish the headlights before this moment. If such an occasion would have presented itself, she would’ve become defeated by pneumonia long before those last embers grew cold. It is then I go inside. The house feels bigger. I walk to the upstairs loft space and I feel heavier. I sit on the couch and search the darkness for the lamp. I switch it on and the light scatters and becomes swallowed, so that only a small patch pools around a small space at one end of the couch. I place the book in the light and turn the pages. I continue to shiver a bit, at first. I look up every couple of pages. I turn and stare into the room, the house, the darkness. Everything seems so much absent of form. I sit there holding the book and imagine everything else has been rubbed out under the weight of night and the space has been filled only with absence. A chill shakes me from my lost gaze into nothing. I turn more pages. But in the warmth, under the comforter, curled up next to the only patch of light visible, I close my eyes and surrender. I breathe in deeply, a scent mixed with fragrant rose and sleep comes over me.
It is not long however, until my slumber is interrupted. There is a creak. It continues. I wake groggily and yet hopeful. The creak reminds me of her steps, the times she’d ascend the ladder to find an old garment or simply to stare out the rounded window, as the rain fell. After her enchantment fractured, and as we ended our nights less and less in the upstairs loft space in each other’s warmth, it was more common that I’d hear the creaking and find her there. And so as I wake to the room, absent of any light, the 1000 hours of the incandescent bulb having been spent. There’s a part of me that is hopeful the creaking could be her. I feel around in the dark for the lamp. The bulb is cold. I sit up and wonder how many bulb’s reach their 1000th hour each day, how many coincide with special occasions, how many expire at the same moment the person they are illuminating does also, and how it is that this is the first one that has expired on me. I get up and stumble in the dark, toward the creaking. I can close my eyes and that would make little difference. Light is absent. Nothing has changed; the furniture, the rug, the spacing of the walls and the ladder. Everything is the same. The same as it was when we shared all these spaces. I make my way through the darkness and navigate by memory. The memories of her. I stand there in the dark of the attic and can almost make out the sphere of the window. Then I see dark curves and I breathe in that familiar scent that often still lingers. I see her outline or imagine it. I reach out and feel a softness in my hands. It’s like holding something and yet not. Like trying to grab handfuls of water while immersed. As best I can, I try not to let go, holding on to her shadow, the softness, the darkness, the absence. I recall what the origami maker said and I make my way to the kitchen.
She loved candles and lit many of our special moments by them. She always kept them in the kitchen, next to the cork screw, matches from the little bed and breakfast we frequented, incense, scented massage oil, and a post card I gave her after our first date-the painting she had been standing in front of when I met her. I feel around in the dark with my right hand. I try to hold on with my left. I open the drawer and am overwhelmed by the scent of the massage oil. It has gone rancid and has spilled over everything. It dried into the incense, the postcard, and around the matches. I pick out the matches. They are sticky. Only one remains. It stands out as if it should have been used long ago. I take the match book and place it between my lips pressing them together. I reach for a candle. She always preferred the small white scented votives. In the dark, I try to find the striking strip on the matchbook. I press the match head against it and strike, but the dried oil causes part of the match head to crumble. I manage to turn the match and strike again. There is a flicker and I hold it to the wick. The light intensifies, glowing from the candle’s end. In it I can see the exact outline. It is her. It becomes more her. She smiles. Then she dissipates and I am left breathing in a scent sweeter than any I’ve ever known, as the candle flickers and the sun rises and light fills in every corner of the house.
I walk out onto the back porch, in the burgeoning of daylight twilight. I sit on the stairs, to the right of which is the flower patch. The house feels smaller. She had always wanted a garden to bloom, but never learned how to tend to it. I reach out and pull off one of the orchids with deep purple veins, which have been growing in the garden since shortly after she lost enchantment and went away.