Four Voices

Four orange callas rise above a pale, frosted vase, each on its own thin stem, and each turned a different way: one to the left, one to the right, one looking back over its shoulder, and one dipping down towards the mouth of the vase.

They could almost be speaking. Four open throats, four directions, the kind of evening when everyone at the table talks at once. It would be a noisy picture if it were not so still. And under all that turning there is only one vase. However far each flower leans, its stem goes back to the same place.

Families are often like this, and so are old friendships. We face our own ways, we disagree, we lean out as far as we can go. The one who dips back towards the centre is not always the same one. But the vessel holds, and that is what makes it a gathering rather than four flowers.

Perhaps we can face different ways and still share one vase.