Smelling the orchids all week, while they bloom.
Reminding me of Grandma orchids from then.
Only not mixed with the smells of industrial laundry
gas station
dust
undercurrents of loss and other emotions
that I was unaware of at that age
they did a good job of protecting
until later, when it all happened anyway
things have a way of doing that.
Falling apart despite the best intentions
and the determination of the dead to outlast
their life
and control beyond the grave.
Never works, really.
The living have a way of selectively following
and justifying the variance.
And choosing for themselves.