A memory saved in the secret orchid, visiting often to get the feel of being cherished, and then locked safe. Isn’t it peculiar how certain memories become like those rare orchids, treasured and hidden away in the quiet gardens of our hearts? They exist in places not often visited, yet, when the world grows loud, we find ourselves slipping away to linger there.
These memories are tender fragments of a time that felt as close as home. They’re the snapshots we took without a camera, moments carried by senses rather than pixels. The smell of a place we once called ours, the warmth of a voice now faded, or a glance from across a room — these become keepsakes, held so dearly that they seem to bloom in the depths of our thoughts, like petals opening with every recollection.
In our musings, we find a solace, a reunion with something or someone long gone. It’s as if by remembering, we can reach across time and touch that precious thing we lost, if only for a moment. The memory doesn’t remain static; it evolves, becoming a bit sweeter, a bit softer, a bit more like the version we need.
But eventually, we lock it away again, as if afraid that too much light might fade it. That orchid is meant to stay vibrant in shadows, not scrutinized but felt, sensed in the heart’s quiet corners. As we walk away, the memory remains, tucked away in its fragile beauty, a reminder of what was once cherished. We return to the present, carrying with us the lingering comfort of having known and loved something deeply, however distant it may now seem.
No comments:
Post a Comment