I put flowers up when things feel icky inside. I sprinkle pops of color around my house that, ironically, only last a week or two. Fresh flowers are deceptive. They give the illusion of natural, lasting beauty. A hot summer wedding will have wilted flowers by the afternoon. What was once fragrant, vibrant, and tall ends up folded over, bending at the stems. The tops of the flowers sink toward the ground as if they are a hunchbacked man.

I put up flowers when things feel icky inside. Their fleeting but fragile beauty is a reminder that not all things are meant to last forever. The yellow sunflowers sit on my counter in a glass vase. They’re supposed to be rooted in the ground, turning toward the sun and soaking up nutrients. Somewhere in time, someone thought they would look better outside of the soil, perched on a granite countertop, walls away from the sunlight.

I put up flowers when things feel icky inside. The fifteen-dollar bouquet at the grocery market is enough to remind me that some effort is better than no effort. When the house is messy and life feels pointless, my flowers remind me that they will only live on my counter for a short time. I try to at least keep the area clean around them so their beauty can be admired.

I put flowers up when things feel icky inside. And by the time they wilt—by the time their stems crisp up and their petals fall to the countertops—things don’t feel as icky inside anymore. My flowers wilt, carrying with them all of the heaviness in the house as they fall.

I put flowers up when things feel icky inside. The dried-up petals and slimy stems go in the garbage to be dragged to the dumpster. Now the pops of color are gone, and there is nothing on the counter to admire. But it feels easier to breathe again.

Until it’s time to put flowers up again.