A fitting metaphor, this vase of mine. It is empty, and dusty, and has been for more than a year. Excuse me, please, it isn't quite empty. It does hold, after all, the memory of flowers.
The vase was waiting patiently for me tonight, as it has done every night since I moved into the house. It is simple, plain clear glass, with curves that are just pleasant enough. The vase rests on top of combination bookshelf/television cabinet, which in turn is just across the room from the couch. In some lights, it almost disappears. Tonight I sat down on the couch and stared at it. It said nothing. Frankly, there are hours and days that pass where I do not so much as register its existence. It sits, quietly, and dreams of being filled with something beautiful, and wonderful.
As do I.