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The real worth of the flowerpot was never about rarity or resale. It was about continuity. The way an ordinary object can absorb meaning simply by being present long enough. It carried the marks of use — scratches, stains, imperfections — that told a story no appraisal ever could.
Today, the flowerpot sits in a different home, still in use. Each spring, it’s filled again, not out of nostalgia alone, but as an act of remembrance. New hands tend to it now, but the ritual remains the same.
If you’d like this adapted to be shorter, more sentimental, more journalistic, or formatted for a magazine or lifestyle site, I can adjust it easily.
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