Granny used to take care of her orchids on flower pots. She watered and moved us to nourish under the astro-god. We feast, chlorifille indulgance, with the wind as our dance rythm... Until one day, it came. The skies were black, full of hatred, showering rain and ice above us. It roared thunders with all his wrath, and we, vulnerable, could do nothing, as the heavens shredded our humble greenhouse.

We were destroyed. Our soil was spiled like blood on the ground, our leaves went windborn and long lost at the tempest, and our flowers bended like chipsticks under a kids teeth. 

Granny had no choice. Her old bones and tired hands did the best she could, but there were only a few that could be saved and repoted... I was not one of them.

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The bad ones, the broken, were all picked up, and put into a bag, but Granny... Granny couldn't throw us away. She looked at the tree, and we, with our non-existant eyes, looked at the old woman, with hipotetical tears. 

She threw us at the tree, left to die... 

But we wont. We fought. 

A fight agains Mother Nature. We broke the rules and sunk our roots into the tree bark, to hold ourselves and sap little of the Great One. 

We endured the harsh sun, that threatened to burn our leaves. We outlasted the winter, that tried to freeze our bulbs, our reserve. We made sacrifices when the rot almost got us all...

Time passed slow, and so was our growth. Little by little, leaf by leaf, we built our core, so our flowers shall see the world once again.