I never thought I'd be the kind of person who'd fall in love with fake plants, much less ceramic ones, but here I was, standing in my sister's living room, completely transfixed by what looked like a succulent that had somehow defied gravity and sprouted from her wall. "It's not real," she said, rolling her eyes at my slack-jawed expression. Of course it wasn't real – I knew that – but the way its blue-green petals caught the afternoon light made it seem almost alive, like some exotic creature that had decided to make its home among her carefully curated wall art decor. "It's modern artwork," she explained, as if that somehow made it less magical. But I couldn't help but notice how she'd positioned it perfectly between her vintage concert posters and that pretentious black-and-white photograph of a Parisian café she'd bought during her "finding herself" phase in college. The ceramic wall flower had somehow managed to tie everything together, turning her living room into something that belonged in one of those magazines our mother keeps in her guest bathroom. I found myself visiting her more often after that, though I'd never admit it was because of a piece of wall art. Sometimes, when she's busy in the kitchen, I catch myself talking to it.