I moved this month.
I moved this month. I did not count the vases, but it was somewhere north of a dozen, and most of them went to Goodwill.
Most vases are not bought. They arrive. Nearly every one of mine came into the house attached to flowers, sent for a birthday, a birth, a thank you, a death in the family. The flowers were gone inside the week. The glass stayed for years, moved from shelf to shelf, and eventually had to be wrapped and boxed and carried by a man I was paying by the hour.
Most of them were right to send flowers that day. What interests me is the four that survived, because the reasons were not the ones I expected.
Two were tall enough to hold long stems. The other two are small green glass bud vases I bought myself, years ago, because the color reminded me of Oz.
That is the list. Not who gave them. Not the occasion. I could not tell you now which vase arrived for which event, and I was there for all of them.
The two I chose outlasted every one I was given. They cost almost nothing.
An object earns its place two ways. It does something, or you want to live with it. Sentiment alone will not get it onto the truck.
Which is why we start where we start. Not with the object. With what is changing for this person, what is being honored, what has to be said without being said out loud.
The object comes last, and then it has to survive the move.