I'd been staring at this ceramic flower on my kitchen wall for three hours now, not because I'm particularly obsessed with wall décor, but because I'd taken too much cold medicine and couldn't seem to move my head. The light blue petals, sharp and angular like my sister's personality, jutted out in all directions as if the flower itself had been startled mid-bloom. It was roughly the size of my palm, which I know because I'd spent countless moments holding my hand up to it, much to the confusion of dinner guests who probably thought I was trying to high-five my wall. My mother would have called it "statement art," though what statement a spiky blue ceramic flower makes beyond "I shop at boutiques that smell like lavender and regret" is beyond me. The artist probably intended it to be sophisticated wall décor, the kind that makes visitors nod thoughtfully and say things like "Oh, how contemporary." Instead, it's become the focal point of my kitchen, drawing more attention than the burn marks on my ceiling from that unfortunate flambe incident we don't talk about. Still, there's something endearing about its aggressive delicacy, like a ballet dancer in combat boots.