As I survey my garden, clippers in hand, there isn’t much to cut for my dining room table. The azaleas are perking up, but they’re at least a week from flowering. I see signs of life among the Virginia bluebell leaves, and the celedon poppies are forming buds, but nothing is ready to pick. So I’m relieved to discover a large patch of two-toned violets waving for attention. These are among my favorites, reminding me of my childhood in France, where violets are a treasured flower, and street corner sellers can still be found today. I pick a bouquet to place in the violet vase, one of the few pieces of my mother’s ceramics that still survive. She went through many phases of creative endeavor as I was growing up—from colored pencils to oil paintings, cake decorating to ceramics—seeking an outlet for her restless energy. As I look back from this vantage point in my own creative life, I realize that she usually abandoned her efforts just at the point when she was about to break through into mastering her medium. She didn’t like to be frustrated—who does? She wanted to be the best at everything, and if she wasn’t, she moved on. When I hold this vase in my hands, I regret her impatience. I would have liked to see what came next. She had a wonderful eye for color and a gift for picking just the right details. The violet vase is the perfect shade of green to complement the purple of the flowers, and the swirls of playful raised dots transform its traditional shape. I’m glad she left this pretty vase painted by her own hands. I can enjoy the simple beauty of the violets as I honor her efforts.