In times of crisis, I've found that people develop attachments to the most peculiar objects. My sister once dedicated three months to creating origami animals from old tax returns, but my latest obsession – a ceramic flower in a lustrous pearl shade that catches light like a soap bubble – feels somehow more justifiable. "It's called sea lettuce," I explained to my partner while holding the ceramic piece at various angles, watching it shift from cream to opalescent white like a mood ring caught in an identity crisis. "Though really, it looks more like what would happen if the moon decided to bloom." The ceramic piece came with a keyhole mount that my mother insists makes it look like a fancy doorknob when viewed from behind. But there's something perfect about its medium size, like Goldilocks herself had specified the dimensions. I hung it in the kitchen, replacing a dubious abstract painting I'd bought at a garage sale that might have been hanging upside down for the past two years. "It would be perfect in a nursery," my partner suggested, though we both knew our spare room had become a graveyard for abandoned exercise equipment. "That's what you said about my collection of Victorian hat pins," I reminded them. But this was different. The pearlescent sea lettuce had transformed our kitchen from a mere room into something more ethereal, like dining inside an oyster shell. Every time I glance at it while making coffee, I imagine it's quietly glowing with approval, unlike my coffee maker, which seems to break down specifically when I have houseguests to impress.