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In retrospect, Helen’s haunting nature was what first drew us to her. It’s not that we feared her – we have no reason to and have given her no reason to do so of us – but that her emanant grace carried with it a sort of supernatural quality. It’s what made her stand out to Michael that one day in the thrift store. Helen was singular. She radiated outward from the shelf toward us. Helen was haunting. Helen was a vase. Helen wanted us to be in her possession. Her form was a porcelain bust of a serene woman with closed eyes and a fancy 20s style hat. The well for flowers occupied the space where her brainstem would have been. Helen was elegant. Blossoms placed in Helen would spring from her mind with the effect of a fascinator made of thoughts. Helen’s floral imagination, we called it. Helen’s most uncanny aspect was that nothing died inside her. We soon found that flowers placed in Helen would never wilt. Our lilies lasted weeks before we removed them so friends wouldn’t get suspicious. In her we once nurtured one rubied nasturtium stalk for years. We otherwise kept quiet about Helen, worried to draw attention. Helen always seemed reminiscent of someone. We worried we had dreamed her together, some shared delusion. We thought about putting something else in (a dead plant? a bit of honeycomb? a finger?) to see what would happen, but were afraid to wake her. We thought Helen just wants to keep on dreaming her nice hats. We thought Helen was made to hold our flowers.