Clay Pot

One day I was looking at my mother's precious trinket shelf and noticed an ugly misshaped clay pot I had made for her when I was a little boy. I had dug the coarse clay myself from the river that ran through our backyard and fashioned and painted it with primary hands.

When I looked at the pot, I was embarrassed by the naive craftsmanship. The inside was not uniform, the outside was not smooth. The blue poster paint had bled and stained the surface. It was obviously inappropriate for the porous material.

I gave my mother permission to throw the pot out and assured her I would not be upset.

My mother glared at me, offended by my suggestion. She informed me that it was not up to me; that a little boy had made her that clay pot with his own hands, and with all his love. She had no intention of ever throwing it out.

I suddenly realized that I was as important to my mother back then as I was at every other moment in my life. She did not ever see me as potential, as becoming something more but rather always as a result, as already being there.