Post by adoptpetz on Aug 30, 2010 19:16:08 GMT -5
I looked up at the gloomy sky from my bedroom window. It would rain soon. My mother called me into the small dining room, only big enough for a small table and chairs, plus some walking room. The roof was thatched, and the walls were made of logs. The roof was leaking again.
"Crystal, I got you some new clay yesterday. I want you to make that pot of yours, okay?"
"Yes mother."
That's all I could ever do now. Work on this. Work on that. After dad died, she got kinda greedy and started making me do most the work. If I didn't know any better, I'd think she wanted a slave rather than a daughter. And I didn't see any resemblance. I often wondered if I was a slave, adopted into freedom. She told me to do these things nicely, but I never had a choice. I sighed and picked up the reddish colored, wet brick of clay. Bringing it over to my new pottery wheel, I started spinning it, not even having to think about where to move my fingers, and how much more water to add. I decided this one would be one of my signature zig-zag designs. I found some of my red silt used for painting my clay creations. It was very wet and much more slimy than soggy clay. I painted it into my engravings on the sides, and got it ready for kilning. I let the silt dry a little before dipping in into a glaze. Glazed, I carefully put it in the kiln, hoping it wouldn't get any gray-green speckles on it that would ruin the entire pot. As I turned the pot around and around in the flames with the handle that swiveled it around to harden it evenly, I thought about the fire, trying to remember anything that may tell me if I really was adopted, or born here, into freedom.
"Crystal, I got you some new clay yesterday. I want you to make that pot of yours, okay?"
"Yes mother."
That's all I could ever do now. Work on this. Work on that. After dad died, she got kinda greedy and started making me do most the work. If I didn't know any better, I'd think she wanted a slave rather than a daughter. And I didn't see any resemblance. I often wondered if I was a slave, adopted into freedom. She told me to do these things nicely, but I never had a choice. I sighed and picked up the reddish colored, wet brick of clay. Bringing it over to my new pottery wheel, I started spinning it, not even having to think about where to move my fingers, and how much more water to add. I decided this one would be one of my signature zig-zag designs. I found some of my red silt used for painting my clay creations. It was very wet and much more slimy than soggy clay. I painted it into my engravings on the sides, and got it ready for kilning. I let the silt dry a little before dipping in into a glaze. Glazed, I carefully put it in the kiln, hoping it wouldn't get any gray-green speckles on it that would ruin the entire pot. As I turned the pot around and around in the flames with the handle that swiveled it around to harden it evenly, I thought about the fire, trying to remember anything that may tell me if I really was adopted, or born here, into freedom.