Leaning Together, Monochrome

The same two anemones, the same tall glass vase — but now without colour. What was pink and cream has become silver and grey, and the dark centres of the flowers look back at us like two quiet eyes.

When colour is taken away, other things come forward. The stems, crossing inside the glass, one leaning toward the other. The small distance between the two flowers, never quite closed and never quite widened. Without the pleasure of colour to hold the eye, what remains is the relationship itself.

It is like looking at an old photograph of two people who spent their lives together. The colour of those years may have faded, but the way they stood beside each other has not. In the end, that is what we remember.

When everything else fades, closeness remains.