In June I was obsessed with tea steepers. The kind found in Chinese restaurants in Meguro, mostly blue and white with three sections. But whenever I’d settle at the wheel to pull the clay up into something worthy of confession, the walls would buckle and fold like cloth.

Every thought of pulling up walls to what felt like heaven, every attempt an admission to the darkness waiting outside or afternoon passers-by. Every thought of the offhand, half joking request that led me by the hand to the point of obsession, an acknowledgement that the person behind it was becoming more and more dear to me.

I hadn’t the skill to make a single tea steeper, no matter how often I let the clay push and pull at me but no matter how well I folded my walls, you could unfold, unmake, and reduce me to clay. Even then.



 

Published July 5, 2024
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