In times of crisis, I've found that people develop attachments to the most unexpected things. My sister once devoted an entire spring to photographing strangers' garden gnomes, but my latest obsession – a ceramic cherry blossom in a shade of ecru that suggests vintage wedding dresses and well-loved library cards – feels somehow more dignified. "It's inspired by cherry blossoms," I explained to my partner, who discovered me contemplating wall spaces with the concentration of someone decoding ancient hieroglyphics. "Though really, it looks more like what would happen if a Japanese spring decided to bloom in sepia tones." I traced the delicate edges of each petal, marveling at how the cream-colored clay managed to capture the ephemeral nature of actual cherry blossoms in permanent form. The ceramic piece came with a keyhole mount that my mother said reminded her of a tiny fortune cookie. But there was something perfect about its medium size, like it understood the art of making a statement without shouting. I hung it in the kitchen, replacing a collection of commemorative plates that had been silently judging our eating habits for the past decade. "It would be lovely in a nursery," my partner suggested, though we both knew our spare room had morphed into a repository for ambitious cooking gadgets we'd never mastered. "That's what you said about my collection of pressed flowers from places we've never visited," I reminded them. But this was different. The ecru cherry blossom had transformed our kitchen from a place where we occasionally attempted recipes beyond our skill level into a space that felt like dining inside an old photograph where everything is slightly soft and nostalgic. Every time I look at it while making dinner, I imagine it's quietly appreciating how we've managed to burn pasta in increasingly creative ways.