On Friday, my father’s birthday passed like any other day. When he was alive, we would all go to dinner and then celebrate by buying a German Chocolate cake, singing Happy Birthday, and feeding him pieces of cake. Even writing this memory, various images flash in my mind. His smile, my mom’s laughter, my sister giving my father a hug, while we all formed a circle around him. I am trying to reconcile that memory with the present.
There isn’t a father or a celebration or German Chocolate cake.
We did go to dinner to honor his memory and I asked my mom if we should bring home a cake. Her body sank into her chair and with a quiet voice, she said, “No. Why should we bring a cake? He isn’t here.” The last sentence echoed inside of me. My eyes tingled with tears, but I hid my face behind the stairs and said, “Ok, Mom. No cake.”
This conversation lingered in my head, but I desperately wanted to step out of my melancholy. But the farewell to my father is one, even after two years, I don’t quite understand and am still trying to stumble my way through. On Friday, on our way home from dinner, I said to my husband, “If Dad could just show up for dinner and tell us he is fine… then…” My sentence hung in the air with no place to land.
Since his passing, I’ve wanted a sign acknowledging that he is fine. The boldness of this next statement even surprises me. I believe I received this sign on Sunday evening. On this particular night, we planned a dinner at our home for some friends we recently met. When they arrived, the wife held a pink and white orchid in her hands as a housewarming present.
An orchid. There is an uncanny connection I feel toward this lovely flower. During my father’s service, a single white orchid served as a light of love among the images of death and decay. We brought this same particular orchid home and cared for it. During the transport from Texas to Arizona, the orchid was never the same and withered away slowly. For sentimental reasons, I saved a few of the white petals. Everytime I see an orchid, I think of my father.
As I placed the orchid on the dining table, my mom and husband both looked in my direction, and they said, “It’s an orchid.” We all knew what that meant. Throughout the night, I kept looking at the orchid, comforted by its presence. I later learned that the wife had also lost her father to cancer and as we exchanged our stories, we learned of many similarities between both of our fathers.
After they left, I ask my husband about the orchid and whether he believed there was something more to their gesture. He told me he didn’t believe in coicidences. I think he is right. Hope comes from unexpected places.
Welcome! I am a lawyer turned freelance writer, essayist, and editor. On staff at Literary Mama and the co-founder and co-editor of the literary journal, The Sunlight Press, my essays and reported work have appeared in The Washington Post, The Lily, Saveur, Civil Eats, Brain, Child, ESPN and elsewhere. I am currently at work on a memoir on grief and culture and how it provides perspective on life’s ordinary graces. I invite you to appreciate the ordinary with me. I hope my daily practice of seeing the magic in the mundane helps you celebrate and find more of these moments in your life too.
Rudri, I am happy that you got your sign. I think your husband is right . And I think that hope does come from unexpected places.
Thanks Ayala. When I saw that orchid from someone who I didn’t know every well, I took a very pregnant pause. And then when I learned that our stories were so similar, I just knew my father was trying to tell me something. With his birthday just the day before, it just didn’t have the texture of a coincidence.
Oh, Rudri. I am so happy you found your sign that gives you peace. As one who had looked for and found a sign like this, I absolutely believe it to be a sign that he is ok.
I believe I read that post Suzicate and I recall wanting that sign for myself. It does feel like you are making peace with an outcome that you can’t understand. Thanks for your words my friend.
I love the title of this post and and thank the cosmos for these unexpected places from which hope springs. And I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who has ever looked for signs.
Belinda, this orchid came from the most unlikely of places. When I saw it, I just couldn’t believe it. And I needed a sign. So yes, I am grateful for the cosmos too.
Hugs, hugs, hugs to you dear bloggy friend. Yes – it is a beautiful sign. Your special sign. A sign that he is sending hugs to you, too. xoxoxo
Accepting those hugs Jane. The more I write and contemplate what happened last night, it gives me a palpable feeling of peace. Appreciate your words and love. Thank You.
Your soul knows just what time it is. Here’s to trusting the world in which we live, and to accepting that no one in it has any corner on Truth. No matter what else, we can certainly wish each other comfort, healing, love and presence to the blessings that we have, tangible and intangible.
I really like what you said Bruce. “Your soul knows just what time it is.” Trust is something I grapple with and signs like the orchid steer me in a direction of a more realized internal peace. As always, thanks for your insight and kind words. Namaste.
I am here, beautiful girl. Soaking up every word. xo
Thanks for your warm thoughts Kitch. Always a pleasure to hear your voice in my space.
This is so beautiful and so powerful, Rudri. Thank you for sharing it.
May your life be filled with orchids. xo
Kristen, thanks for that lovely wish. I hope that orchids appear just when I need them most.
Oh, wow, Rudri. That made my eyes water. It has to be a sign, especially considering the other woman’s experience. I hope you continue to connect with her. Such a beautiful gift, from her and from your father.
Yes, when I saw the orchid, the shock registered so much that I felt it in my core. I allowed myself to yield and this helps me believe that this truly was a sign from my father.