Saturday, June 22, 2025, 9:15 a.m.
Warm sunlight spills across the wooden floors of the garden banquet hall in Brooklyn. I walk along the beige carpet toward the head table, the hem of my dress brushing against a low-hanging crystal chandelier. The gentle clinking sound mingles with a faint scent of roses — and something else, something green and crisp. That subtle note is coming from the lush, half-human-height monstera centerpiece at the table.
I pause and reach out, lightly touching the edge of a newly “unfurled” leaf. Even the curl is captured so perfectly, as if by nature itself.
The hall’s vaulted ceiling is framed with vintage wooden beams wrapped in white tulle, swaying softly in the morning breeze. The head table, an oval mahogany piece seating twelve, is draped in ivory linen, layered with soft pink lace and translucent gauze runners. At the center, a 1.5-meter-tall faux monstera unfurls its leaves, flanked by sprigs of areca palm and eucalyptus. Shades of green intertwine with depth and texture.
“Lily, come quick!”
The bride, Sophie, rushes in wearing her trial gown, lace veil grazing my arm. She wears just a touch of makeup, yet her cheeks glow with natural blush.
“These greens look amazing! Way better than they did on video yesterday!”
She runs her fingers along a leaf, stopping delicately at the veins. “It feels just like a real plant — even slightly dewy. Wait, is it real?”
Sunlight streams through the stained glass windows, casting a rainbow of colors on the leaves — as if kissed by stars.
“It’s artificial,” I reply, handing her a glass of iced lemon water. Beads of condensation drip onto the tablecloth, blooming into small rings.
“Remember last week when we tried the real thing? The eucalyptus curled up under the AC, and the photographer said it looked terrible on camera.”
Sophie bursts into laughter — she clearly remembers the chaos.
“But this one looks livelier than the real thing.” She leans in for a sniff. “No soil smell either — and it blends perfectly with the rose scent.” She points to a top leaf. “Look at that soft green, so luminous. It’s just beautiful.”
Just then, the groom Thomas enters, holding his vow cards. He stops by the table and stares for a moment.
“Is this new? Looks way fuller than before.”
Dressed in a navy suit, he smiles, “My mom actually said yesterday she wants to take the greenery from the head table home after the ceremony — as a keepsake.”
“Perfect,” I smile. “It’s artificial, so no maintenance needed. Just take it home.”
He holds an areca palm frond up to the light. The veins are vivid, and even the tiniest fibers look real.
“And no falling leaves. Even if someone’s dress brushes past during rehearsal, it’s totally fine.”
He snaps a photo with his phone.
“My sister used real plants at her wedding. Someone spilled champagne on them, and they turned black the next day. Had to throw them all out.”
“No such worries here.” I swirl the wine in my glass.
“Even if something spills, a quick wipe with a damp cloth and it’s spotless. No water stains, nothing.”
By 2 p.m., the sunlight grows stronger. Sophie leans on Thomas’s shoulder for a selfie, and the greens in the background appear extra vibrant in the shot.
As the rehearsal begins, the bridesmaids and groomsmen circle the head table for blocking practice. Dresses graze the greenery from time to time, but the leaves merely sway — not a single one falls.
The photographer, snapping away, exclaims,
“These plants are stunning on camera! Every angle has so much depth.”
Golden sunlight hits from the side, casting the monstera’s shadows across the pale pink tablecloth like a soft watercolor wash.
After the setup wraps up that evening, I sit alone at the head table, watching the sun retreat from the windowsill. The faux greenery stands quietly in the fading light, its hues deepening into dusk.
Three years ago, an outdoor wedding I helped plan was thrown into chaos by an unexpected rainstorm — every live plant toppled and soaked. But this time, no matter the weather, temperature, or light, these plants will remain exactly as they are, guarding the beauty of the ceremony.
“Lily, will these plants really last?” Sophie texts me later, with a smiley face.
I reply: “They’ll last ten years, easily. Take them out on your anniversary, and they’ll still be as green as today.”
Before leaving, I glance back one last time. Moonlight filters through the window, falling gently across the greenery — quietly standing guard over this cherished memory.
