On Sunday afternoon, the sunlight in the suburbs of Boston streamed through the white lattice railings of Elaine’s front porch like melting pearls. I tightened my grip on the wicker flower basket—this was my first visit to her new home. On the phone, she had simply said, “There’s something here that will remind you of spring in Luoyang.”
The door opened with a soft click, and Elaine, wearing a cream-colored knitted cardigan with a fresh daisy in her hair, greeted me. “Come in, I just brewed some Keemun tea,” she said as she stepped aside. I smelled the rich scent of freshly baked scones, mingled with a faint trace of white musk incense, and a subtle “peony fragrance” drifted from a bouquet of flowers in the center of the living room.
The entryway was paved with cement tiles in a geometric rose pattern, and a brass hook held a few linen coats that swayed gently in the breeze. The living room was done in typical American country style, with a ceiling almost 3.5 meters high. Crystal chandeliers hung from the plastered ceiling, while sunlight shone on the light oak floors, giving them a soft sheen. On the beige fabric sofa, a few dusty rose cushions with embroidered peony patterns were piled up. In front of the sofa, an oval wooden dining table held a half-meter-high bouquet, the peonies spreading their petals like a swirling pink cloud.
The flowers were arranged in a pale grey ceramic pot, with hand-painted gold peonies on the side, the edges of the pot cracked in a deliberately aged manner, with a few artificial moss bits embedded in the crevices. Six peonies were stacked in layers, the largest one about 15 cm in diameter. The petals gradually transitioned from light pink to off-white, with golden “stamens” in the center. A few dark green artificial ferns surrounded them, with dewdrops on the leaves. The sunlight slanted across the petals, casting delicate speckles of light.
“Staring at them?” Elaine asked as she handed me a bone china teacup. The gilded edge of the cup reflected the flower’s shadow. I snapped out of my trance and gently touched the outermost petal. It felt soft yet elastic, like fine silk moistened by morning dew. The edges of the petals naturally curled, as though blown by the wind. “These are made of silk,” Elaine said, and I was stunned. They looked incredibly lifelike.
“These are fake?” I asked, leaning closer to the bouquet. I noticed that the largest flower had a fake bee hidden between the petals, with its wing veins so detailed that I could see the fine lines. Sunlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, moving across the petals, making the pink flowers glisten naturally. They looked even more vibrant than the real peonies I had seen in the Luoyang Peony Garden three years ago.
Elaine smiled as she nestled into the sofa, brushing her fingers across the peony embroidery on the cushion. “I used to keep real peonies. Do you remember? Last year, they only bloomed for seven days. As soon as the flowers bloomed, a heavy rain came, and the petals fell everywhere. I was heartbroken and couldn’t sleep for days.” I remembered it well; she had sent me a photo of the fallen flowers with the caption, “The most beautiful flowers always fade the quickest.”
“But this one’s different,” she said, pointing to a half-bloomed bud. “Look, last month when we were moving, it got squashed by a box. After I straightened it out, it looked fine again.” As the sunlight shifted, I noticed that the “soil” had a few small pebbles mixed with artificial clover, feeling dry and refreshing to the touch. What was most amazing was that a few delicate “leaves” had sprouted on the flower stalk, with veins as if they had been carefully painted by an artist.
“I originally wanted to have real peonies,” Elaine said, pouring me more tea. “The florist said real peonies don’t last more than ten days indoors. If you water them too much, they rot, too little and they wilt, and they’re particularly prone to aphids. But I really love peonies. I felt like the living room lacked a bit of that opulence.” She pointed to a painting of peonies on the wall. “Even this ‘Peony Picture’ was chosen to match the flowers.”
Just then, Elaine’s son Toby ran over with a toy car and accidentally bumped into the dining table leg. I nearly spilled my tea, but the bouquet only swayed gently. Not a single petal fell. “See? It’s sturdy,” Elaine laughed, pulling her son away. “If it were a real peony, we would have petals everywhere now.”
Toby pointed at the largest bloom. “Mom says this is a magic flower that never wilts and won’t be visited by butterflies.” I suddenly noticed a small ventilation hole at the bottom of the flowerpot. Elaine read my thoughts. “It’s for decoration. Last week, I spilled some juice in it, but after I tipped it over and let it drain, there was no trace of water at all.”
As I sat sipping my tea, my gaze kept drifting toward the peony’s shadow. The afternoon sun softened, and the shadow stretched across the white wall, changing form. I began to imagine my own entryway—perhaps that empty space on the cabinet would be perfect for a small silk peony arrangement?
In the morning light, it could reflect the steam rising from my milk cup. In the evening, the warm light from the wall lamp would give the petals a golden outline. Even if I went on a two-week trip, it would still be as beautiful as when I left, unlike the real roses on my windowsill, whose petals would always wilt and complain about my neglect.
“My husband always says I’m a plant killer,” I spun my teacup. “I’ve killed camellias, jasmine, and even the ‘hard-to-kill’ pothos, which ended up with yellow leaves.” Elaine handed me a scone. “That’s why I recommend trying this. You don’t have to tend to it for months, and it won’t fade, even if you put it in a north-facing room. It will always look fresh.”
As the sun began to set, the orange-pink light bathed the petals, casting a golden hue. I noticed how the petals were all shaped differently—some were fully open, like a little girl’s dancing skirt, some half-open like a shy maiden, and others were just small buds. The artisan had replicated the peony’s many forms so realistically.
Toby was drawing next to the flowerpot, and some crayon shavings fell into the “soil.” Elaine casually wiped it away. “If it were a real peony, we would have ants by now,” she laughed. I stared at the bouquet and suddenly understood its magic—while it preserved the most dazzling beauty of the flower, it had none of the troublesome fragility, like a thoughtful friend who quietly adorns life.
As I stood to leave, I changed my shoes by the entryway and glanced back at the living room. The setting sun stretched the flower’s shadow long across the floor. Elaine’s husband was sitting by the fireplace reading the newspaper, and the candlelight on the mantel glowed warmly, creating a scene so gentle I wanted to stay forever.
“I’ve decided,” I said as I tied my shoes, excited. “I’ll buy one when I get home. It would be the perfect splash of color next to the TV cabinet in my living room.” Elaine smiled and handed me a shopping card. “This store has the most realistic ones I’ve seen. Be sure to choose one with buds—it’ll look even livelier.”
As the heat in the car started to kick in, I was already imagining where to place it. It will go on the right side of the TV cabinet, where sunlight can shine through the petals and cast a shadow on the carpet. I’ll pair it with a blue-and-white porcelain pot to match my Chinese-style screen.
