The week before Monica’s mom Herminia died, her brother Tomas came from Madrid to Pueblo to be with her and the family. During his stay, he bought a potted orchid for his sister. It was placed on the night stand next to her, a beautiful sentinel to the unfolding sadness of those days in late May nearly four years ago.

 After Herminia died, Monica’s dad Manuel gave her the orchid. All the flowers on the plant eventually fell, leaving, at first, some stems and four large green leaves. In the hopes of spurring some new growth, Monica trimmed the stems away. The orchid did sprout some new leaves, but it never came close to flowering.

Nearly 1,400 days passed since the orchid last bloomed when a small shoot sprang up through the flower’s moss-covered base. Monica staked the shoot, keeping it from bending too much toward the light from its perch on our bathroom window sill as it grew and began to bud.

Earlier this week Monica smiled as she asked me, “Did you see mom’s flower? It opened.” I knew her heart was dancing. Mine was, too.