Rose Pink Camellia

I spent three hours last Sunday Googling "wall art decor" and "what to hang above a couch," falling into that familiar spiral of late-night online shopping that always seems to end with me questioning my life choices. My sister Miya had recently told me that blank walls were a sign of emotional unavailability, according to her new therapist. I wasn't sure if I believed that, but the thought haunted me enough to keep scrolling.

That's when I found it: a ceramic flower that could only be described as aggressively pink, the kind of pink that makes Barbie look understated. The listing called it a camillia, though it looked more like what would happen if Georgia O'Keeffe had a fever dream in a pottery class. It was wall mounted, with a keyhole backing that promised easy installation, though nothing in my life has ever been as easy as promised.

The flower was massive – roughly the size of a salad plate – and about as subtle as my mother's hints about grandchildren. But there was something about its unapologetic presence that spoke to me. Perhaps my walls weren't emotionally unavailable after all; they were just waiting for the right ceramic flora to come along.