✨ The Vase That Holds Everything

There are some objects that stop being objects. They become something else entirely —a feeling, a memory, a tether.

This vase is that for me.

A row of delicate glass tubes held in a simple gold frame — elegant, understated, timeless. Quintessentially my mom. It lived at the center of her dining table for years, catching light, catching petals, catching moments.

Now it lives in my home. On my sideboard. In the shifting light of east- and south-facing windows. And every time I walk by, I feel it:

It’s grief, love, lineage, and aesthetics all braided together.

But the beauty of it didn’t fully land until my friend arranged the flowers.

She knows me — my home, my palette, my heart. She knew my mom through the stories I’ve told. And she honored all of it.

She placed each faux stem with such intention, (because lets face it, real flowers don't stand a chance with me). She didn't just arrange these stems, she honored them, stitching my memories into something new. The soft coral petals, lime-green hydrangeas, deep blue blossoms that almost hum in this light. The colors she chose, don't just match my house; they match the feeling of my mom. The way the sun catches them — catching the gold, catching the shadows, catching the memory — makes the entire vase look lit from within.

There’s a quiet devotion in the way she did it. The kind of care only a friend who truly sees you can offer. A friend who understands what it means when you say, “This was my mom’s.” A friend who creates beauty not for the sake of beauty, but for the sake of keeping someone close.

Now, as the light changes throughout the day — glowing in the morning, softening in the afternoon, stretching shadows at dusk — the whole arrangement seems to breathe. Alive with memory. Alive with love.

Every stem feels intentional, placed with love, placed with care, placed with an understanding of what this vase is to me. This vase no longer holds flowers. It holds her. It holds me. It holds the hands of a friend who honored both.