Her hands are older now, and there are clay stains up to her elbows. She watches the little grey teapot spin and spin on her wheel, the sun shining gently through the window of her kiln-room and onto her lap. Her brow is furrowed, but there is no aggravation there anymore. All that’s long gone. All that’s in the past.
She uses her arm to push a tickling hair out of her face, tilting her head to look at the teapot another way and using her hand to gently spin, spin, spin the wheel. Well that part’s done, she thinks to herself, sitting back on her little stool and wiping her hands on her apron. A big breath in. A big breath out. She looks at her old clay kiln named Lucy, all big and black against the soft blue walls. You’ll like this one, she says out loud to the oven, laughing at herself; standing, stretching, and walking over to pat the thing on the top like a loyal pet.
But first, tea.
Flicking the switch on the electric kettle, she looks at the differently-coloured mugs hanging on the wall and chooses a small red one, among the first she’d ever made, and her favourite. She waits while the water boils, looking over the pictures and clippings and cards tacked to the wall nearby as she always does. She knows each image so well she could see them with her eyes closed. Each word written. Each memory attached. A picture of her kids, all grown up with their kids in their arms. A card in her mother’s handwriting. A torn-out page from a magazine with a poem on it. A polaroid of her in her 30s, grinning from ear to ear at her best friend’s wedding. All these pieces of her that tell a story so different than the one she thought she’d have. And all those pains, smaller now than they ever were, like chapters from someone else’s book.
She circles the ring on her left ring finger, an old habit. A mower starts up somewhere outside; her son doing his chores. She looks out her little window at the rolling lawn, the trees, the herb garden; her home. Then the electric kettle beeps, she pours herself a steaming cup of blueberry tea, and she looks back at that little teapot, wondering what colour it will become.
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Cover Image by Jessica Barratt
Jessica Barratt 