瓶花
Before it was shaped, the vase did not know it would become one. Clay rolled across the potter’s wheel—water added, earth taken away—kneaded into shifting forms. What was pressed flat became a plate; what opened into a hollow mouth became, unwittingly, a vase. Plates and vessels were sent across the world: the unadorned to supermarkets, the embellished to department stores.
A bouquet, treated with nutrients, leaned its diagonally cut stems into the vase. From a tight bud, through the dimness of water, the layers slowly unfolded. First a drop, then a handful, until the bloom formed a stream, revealing the tender core at its center. One day, petals appeared on the floor. A few drifted across the water’s surface. The flower, browned and crinkled by the sun, clung to itself in silence—neither side willing to leave first. Only when enough petals had slumped down did they finally make room again for the vessel.
The vase was once astonished by the stories told by the flowers. They had not always looked as they did now. Once they were small lives embedded in damp soil, anchoring their roots and sipping dew, eventually pushing through darkness to greet the first morning light. With this burst of life, they took in the world hungrily. But when a vase has carried too many blooms, even the most vivid among them becomes unremarkable. One falls, another arrives. Abundance dulls its own impression.
The vase found the flowers too fragrant—fragrant to the point of beauty, to the point of ache. But why did it hurt? Long before they offered their color to the world, they had already dropped their sharpness into the mud. Even their velvet softness, the vase realized, carried the sting of thorns. Though fire had forged its body, it was softness that muffled its cry.
An opening, once filled, becomes a vessel. Thus the vase became, inevitably, the bearer of the bloom. Full, then empty. When mineral rings clouded the memory of stems and the weight of stories exceeded that of the vessel itself, only then did the vase remember: before becoming a vase, it had never been stronger than the flower.
“Thank you,” said the vase, “for filling my emptiness.”
“Thank you,” said the flower, “for witnessing my bloom.”
Or perhaps nothing was said at all.
Or perhaps it was simply too difficult to speak.
瓶子在被捏出来前，并不知道自己是瓶子。陶泥在滚动的圆盘上，添水去土，被揉捏成各种形状。压扁的成了盘，有口的也不知不觉成了瓶。瓶瓶盘盘被销往世界各地，素的去超市，彩的去商场。
滴上营养剂的花束，斜切的根茎懒洋洋地依靠在瓶里，从一株含苞的花蕊，循过水的暗淡，它的包裹也慢慢展开。最初是一滴、一捧，终于汇聚河流，露出了最娇嫩的花芯。某天，地上出现几瓣，水里也漂浮着几瓣，花朵被烤出焦黄的印子，皱巴巴地相互依附，谁也不先开口说离开。直到越来越多瓣叶耷拉下身子，才给瓶子腾出了空间。
瓶子曾惊讶于花儿提起的过往。那时它们尚未如今模样，只是潮湿土壤中渺小的生命，拼命扎根，汲取露水，最终顶破黑暗，迎来一轮初升的太阳。随着破土的朝气，它们贪婪地嗅闻整个世界。可惜，当瓶子的岁月里承载太多花时，就算一簇凋落，另一簇也会立刻填满，再丰富也变得不足为奇。
瓶子觉得这些花太香了，香得美艳，香得芬芳。可为什么格外疼呢？花儿，你早在为这世界留下亮色时，就一并将你的尖锐也脱落在泥巴里，但为何绒毛也充满利器。烈火烧制我的身躯，你却用柔软堵住我的呻吟。
洞被置入物时，就成了器的存在，瓶也不可避免作了花的载体。瓶满，瓶空。待到瓶壁的水垢弥散了根茎的形状，花儿承载的记忆也远超了瓶子本身的重量。它才想起，在成为瓶子之前，它并不比花更坚硬。
“谢谢你，曾填满了我的空旷”，
“谢谢你，见证了我的绽放”。
瓶子说，花说。