He dusted the vase again, noting the shadows that fell across its sloping sides; the elegant handles that glinted silver in the light. It needs more flowers, he decided. Slowly, lazily, he worked his way through the garden, picking the daisies that seemed to spring up more plentifully each year.
“That’s a strange vase your Uncle gave you,” Glenda remarked as he returned. Curled in the armchair, she was hours deep in a book – like any other Sunday. “What did Uncle Percy call it again?” She was chiding him, smirking into the afternoon.
He placed the daisies gently in the vase, smiling at the crystal water that reached within an inch of the lip. Not once had he refilled it, in the five years since Uncle Percy had died.
“A Grail,” he nodded sagely. “He called it a Grail.”
© Nadia Brown