We found it in the garden, buried deep, during a yard project. Who knows how long it had been there (since the place was built in 1921?) or what exactly it was originally (medicine bottle? liquor?) but we cleaned it up best we could and I promptly fell in love. The squared corners and the teensy little mouth, not to mention the scratches and dirt of age, just twist some place in my heart. It’s become my go-to bud vase. I love the provenance, wondering who used it and for how long (maybe close to 100 years?) it’s sat in the dirt beside my homestead, waiting to be found. The gorgeous lavendar rose we got at a beautiful little local flower & garden shop, Amelia’s, which I adore. The sign said it was locally grown and I think it must be a hardy Minnesota-grown lovely, because this is what it looks like after an entire week of sitting on my dining table. Perfect. The absolute dictionary definition of a rose.
These are the things I’m longing to be: long lasting, patient, beautiful not despite but because of age and use, perfectly imperfect.