It is the summer of 2011. Exactly one year has gone by since I had lived in Budapest, Hungary for three complete rotations around the sun. I am 13 years old.

Rewind to last summer, the day my family and I moved back to Miami, Florida. The same day when I gifted my grandmother a purple and pink orchid I had kept on my windowsill for the entirety of the three years. I told her that by leaving my orchid with her, she could place the flower on her windowsill and feel that I was right there beside her, instead of an ocean away. I told her that my orchid was special and deserved the same type of love and care that she selflessly gave me, my sister, and my family for all these years.

Monday, August 15, 2011. I am back in Hungary and sitting in my grandparent's living room. Across from me, is my grandmother stretched out on the sofa, lights dim, music faint, her body wrapped in pillows and blankets, her face unrecognizable. Her body, half her familiar size, completely taken over by cancer.

I sit across from her with an aching heart. Her eyes transition from staring at me to distract her pain with happy thoughts to shutting her eyes and looking away in embarrassment that her granddaughter had to watch her in such state. I didn't know what to do. Where to look. Whether to speak or not to speak. I just sat there.

I looked over my shoulder to stare out the window as soon as I felt my bottom lip begin to tremble. On the ledge, I saw the orchid I gifted her before I moved last summer and admired its still lasting beauty. My mom walked into the living room and told me it was getting late, saying I had to walk over to my cousin's house before it got too dark. I stood up from the couch and kissed my grandmother's frigid forehead. Ice cold.

Before walking out of the room, I gave one last look at the orchid and saw one orchid petal flutter down in front of the transparent white curtain. The petal gracefully landed on the floor.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011. I am back in my grandmother's living room with icy-hot patches in hand, as requested by my mother. Too weak to adjust the position her body had been in lying on the couch for weeks, my grandmother's body and what muscle she had left were in sharp pain. Slowly and with the help of my grandfather, we gently lifted my grandmother's upper body just high enough for me to shakingly place a relief patch on to her lower back. As I replaced the layers of blankets on top of her, I heard the faintest tap on the wooden floor. I looked back and saw a second petal had fallen from my orchid.

This trend proceeded on Wednesday, then Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Each day, while paying my daily visits to my grandmother in her living room, I witnessed the same thing. Each day a new petal had fallen. Each day, I coincidentally looked over to my orchid and caught the sight of a petal falling in action. After every "I love you, Grandma," that same exact thing took place. I was confused. How could it be that out of a day's 24 hours, 1,440 minutes, I would observe the same rare action site?

It is Sunday, August 21, 2011. I am sitting at my cousin's dining room table in between both my cousin and my sister when we hear the phone ring. My aunt picks up the phone and the house goes silent. All I hear is whispers and the bedroom door close.

It had to be. There was nothing else it could be.

My aunt opens her bedroom door sniffling, taking deep, heavy breaths and makes her way to the dining room table. She comes from behind and hands me the phone. It's my mother.

With a heavy, trembling voice, my mother tells me my grandmother passed away this morning. No words came out of my mouth. I felt numb. Seconds went by and I was still with no response. My mother asked me if I was okay. I didn't answer. She asked me again, "Andrea?".

Instead of answering her question, I posted my own. I asked my mom to do me a favor without any questions asked. I asked her to walk over to the window and look at the orchid I gifted my grandmother.

"Mom, I know this may sound weird, but how many pedals are left on my orchid?"

"What do you mean?"

"Can you count how many pedals are left on the orchid I gave grandma?"

"There are none, the whole flower bud is on the floor."

I went silent. Again. I handed my aunt her phone back.

Numb. I couldn't move.

The past six days went through my head like a movie in fast-forward. It all made sense to me. Everything. I didn't break down into tears solely because I was prepared for this moment without even realizing it. The orchid symbolized time. Each petal symbolized a day closer to the last. I was given daily signs, signs of mother nature. I felt comfort in knowing my grandmother was finally set free from pain. The piece of me I left in her hands last summer did exactly what I hoped it would and more. It reminded my grandmother of me when she missed me, whenever and forever.

My mom never understood why I asked her about the orchid. She never understood why I didn't break into tears that day. She never understood, my aunt never understood, my family never understood.

It's been seven years and this is probably the first time my mom or anybody else in my family will ever hear this story.