The Pardon of Ploërmel

We followed the path into the ravine, while dreaming of orchids. I said one had been sent to my hotel room once in another town, only it wasn’t a hotel, it was a hospital. This was back in the years of hope abandoned, and it had surprised me — how its petals looked touched with heat, seared just enough to change color. The question was also who had sent it, what compelled a man in ward five to send me his compliments. Until it became clear his room was empty; a young florist filled a dead man’s standing order. And this orchid from another world, it was not mine of course. I am a substitute for the woman who’d held my room before, who was not there to marvel at the wind coming through our open window, or complain about the draft, or see our petals refusing to be blown, standing still rather than falling off or turning to powder.