The Enamel Jug

The hydrangeas arrived each summer like dependable guests, heavy-headed and slightly overdressed. My grandmother kept them in an enormous turquoise enamel jug on a small table by the window, where the afternoon light made them look far more important than they probably were.

I think that’s why I keep painting them. Not because they’re fashionable — but because they feel like memory with petals. A room brightened by something quietly loyal.