Written in response to a prompt, I couldn’t decide where this fits – not really a story, definitely not a poem. I think it is probably Prose poetry. What do you think?

When the orchids sing

They fill my kitchen with glorious colour, and sing the song of my life. Each one a different verse, uniting together in a sweet melody of memory.

The first stanza is cloaked in the rich purple of royalty. A gift from a friend at a gathering that proved to be a final meeting. She isn’t permanently gone. But distance and busy lives have become a chasm too wide to cross in current times. I think of her as the sunlight caresses the deep velvet shade of violet.  I smile and wish her well, and every now and again I send a text saying ‘Your orchid has new flowers. How are you doing? All OK?’

The second sings a song of Christmas. The strangest of flowers these – palest golden brown with primrose stripes. This orchid too a gift, given for the season, but soon revealed as the gift that keeps giving. Year after year, as adverts for Christmas specials on TV and the must-buy toy for your kids begin to air, this delicate plant sends out blooms that gently trill “Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas”.

The final verse of this floral tribute explodes in an abundant riot of pure white flowers. An avalanche of snow tumbling down the dark green stem. Many admire it as they step into my kitchen. Few realise white is the colour of mourning, and this orchid a gift from a friend in sympathy at my loss. As the weeks turned to months and the sharpness of my grief began to dull, the orchid continued to bloom – a defiant reminder of the beauty of life, and the tragedy of death.