In times of crisis, I've found that people become oddly particular about their kitchen decor. While my sister devoted an entire month to creating wall art from expired grocery lists, my latest obsession – a small ceramic flower in pristine white, like a cloud that decided to take up permanent residence indoors – feels surprisingly rational. "It's decor," I explained to my partner, who discovered me in the kitchen, contemplating empty wall spaces with the intensity of someone searching for hidden messages. "Though really, it's more like what would happen if minimalism and a daisy had a very quiet baby." The ceramic piece came with a keyhole mount that my mother claims looks like a tiny full moon when viewed from behind. But there's something perfect about its modest size, like it's mastered the art of being present without being pushy. I hung it in the kitchen, replacing a questionable motivational poster that had been passive-aggressively reminding us to live, laugh, and love for the past three years. The small white flower transformed our kitchen from a place where we occasionally remembered to cook into a space that felt intentional, as if we'd finally graduated from "random stuff on walls" to actual grown-up decor. Every time I glance at it while making coffee, I imagine it's silently approving of how we've managed to make what to hang in a kitchen seem like a philosophical decision rather than an attempt to cover mysterious marks left by previous tenants.