Rain against clay

Rain beats down. Whips the surface with its merciless lash. This isn’t a soft, soothing Spring rain. Its touch is cold and harsh. Shivers run down the spine. Loneliness echoes hollowly in its howling.

The clay won’t hold much longer before it crumbles. The beautiful grooves, skillfully thrown into place, begin to wash away. Two vessels that had become one. A delicately carved coffee cup and a streamlined saucer found each other - and nothing else quite fit anymore. They were made for each other. One cannot exist without the other.

Just clay, in someone’s eyes. Fragile, replaceable. Yet for some reason, placed in the potter’s cabinet, front and center. Even though they weren’t finished yet. Still mid-process. Not yet fired, not yet glazed. Just dry, raw clay - waiting for something. Waiting under the potter’s gaze. On display, as said. Until another time came.

The time of the outdoor setting. On a summer terrace, they decorated the morning coffee table. For some odd reason, again under the gaze - these unfinished vessels.

Then the rest of the setting was cleared away. The howling autumn rains returned. Those two were left outside. Forgotten, someone said. The rain etched, and eventually broke them. They didn’t survive. Discarded, someone whispered.

But the one who designed them knew otherwise. Broken, forgotten perhaps - they were carried back in. The wheel was set on the table again. The clay was reshaped. The cup and saucer joined seamlessly, like softened clay. Cast again into one whole vessel.

Then into the hot kiln they went. For what felt - at least to them - like far too long. Again forgotten. Then coated with a sticky glaze, painted all over. Pushed through yet another unwanted phase. And as if that wasn’t enough, tortured again in heat.

When the autumn rains were covered in a blanket of snow, on one clear morning, they were placed back on the table. After washing, hot liquid was poured inside. For hearts gone cold in the middle of winter, a steaming drink was offered. What brightness in those eyes - awakened by the drink of love.

Love,

Pia