I'd been staring at this ceramic peony 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 bright orange petals, layered and ruffled like my sister's wedding dress after she fell into the chocolate fountain, bloomed outward with a kind of defiant cheerfulness. 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 conducting an invisible orchestra. My mother would have called it "statement art," though what statement a ceramic peony the color of a traffic cone makes beyond "I shop at stores where they burn sage while you browse" 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 avant-garde." Instead, it's become the startling centerpiece of my kitchen, like a solar flare caught mid-burst, drawing more attention than the scorch marks on my ceiling from that unfortunate flambé incident we don't talk about. Still, there's something endearing about its garish charm, like a sunset trying its best to outshine a neon sign.