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It had always been Madoka’s dream to grow a beautiful orchid.
For its warm floral fragrance to fill her blessed home, filling it with a scent not quite as sweet as vanilla and not quite as sharp as a rose.
Sometimes she’d bring her ceramic pot with her to school, watching over it like a devoted mother, doting on a child.
“She looks like you, Homura!” Madoka would exclaim, caressing the cusps of violet petals.
That makes no sense, but I can comprehend every word. There’s a resemblance to me I suppose, it is young and hopeful for the sun’s kiss.
I do what I can, buying her a new watering can with tulips printed along the spout.
Murmuring the lyrics of a familiar song because,
“Talking and singing to plants helps them grow!” is what she always told me.
However I can aid it’s growth. Even if my hands are nowhere near as gentle, and I’m practically tone-deaf.
I’ve been told that Orchids need extra special care, some don’t bloom for months or even years, especially if the flower heads keep rotting on you.
You have to snip the heads off and start all over again.
But not you, I know they’ll reach a full and luminous bloom.
—
Oh darling Madoka, who will care for our orchid now?