Episode 13 - The Potter

There was a potter. Or maybe he was a, no, no, he made pots. Clay pots. I remember clay. We had clay behind the elementary school, down by where the creek used to run before they paved it. Margie said don't eat the clay, Billy, but it tasted like, what's that word? Minerals. Like licking a rock but softer.

The potter, he lived in a valley. Valley. Valley Forge. That's Washington. No, that's different. This valley had willows. Willows weeping, always weeping, what are they so sad about? Trees don't cry, Margie used to say, it's just water, Billy, just condensation. But I think they knew something. Trees live a long time. They see things.

So this potter, he's making bowls. Bowls and cups and, what do you call the ones that hold oil? Jugs? Jars? My mother had blue jars in the kitchen, lined up on the shelf, and when the sun came through at four o'clock they'd glow like, like something. Like they had light inside them. But they were just glass. Just empty glass.

And the potter gets tired. He's tired because the pots keep breaking. Everything breaks, doesn't it? I dropped a plate yesterday. Or was it last week? Nurse Emily came in with the little broom and I said I'm sorry, I'm sorry, my hands don't work right anymore, and she said it's okay, Mr. Beaner, it's just a plate. But it was her plate. I broke it.

The potter climbs a mountain. There's a mountain near here. I can see it from my window. No, that's a water tower. Is it? Mountains are bigger. I climbed a mountain once with, with someone. Her hair smelled like apples. We picked apples halfway up and they were so cold and sweet and we sat on a rock and she said, Billy, do you think we'll always remember this? And I said yes. But I can't remember her name now. Isn't that something? I remember the apples but not her name.

At the top of the mountain there's a fire spirit. Or maybe it was a woman made of fire. Or maybe it was just fire that talked. Fire can't talk. But in dreams it can. Sometimes I dream about fire and it tells me things, but when I wake up I can't remember what it said, just that it was important. So important.

The potter says, Give me your flame. I want to make pots that don't break.

And oh, oh, I understand that. I used to want that too. I used to think, if I could just be stronger. If I could just not mess up so much. If I could just remember things. If my hands didn't shake. If my knees didn't give out. If I could still drive. If I could still read the newspaper without the words swimming around. If I could still, if I could still,

The fire spirit laughs. I think she laughs. Or maybe she sighs. Sometimes laughing and crying sound the same when you're very old. She says, You don't understand. My fire isn't for stone. It's for breath.

Breath. I forget to breathe sometimes. Nurse Emily has to remind me. Deep breath, Mr. Beaner. In through your nose. But breathing hurts now. Everything hurts. Sharp pains in the chest like something's cracking. Like clay cracking. Like ice on the pond behind the elementary school when we'd throw rocks at it in winter and it would crack and crack and crack, spider webs spreading out from where the rock hit.

But the potter begs. He climbs all the way up the mountain, his feet must be bleeding, his lungs must be burning, and he begs. Please. Just once. Let me make something that lasts.

And I think, I think I've been begging too. In my prayers. When I remember to pray. Let me not wet the bed again. Let me be useful. Let me not be such a burden. Let me be strong like I used to be. Let me carry my own weight. Let me not break.

The fire spirit says okay. She says, I'll put my flame in your pot. But it'll still be clay. It'll still crack. But it'll carry my fire.

Carry my fire.

The potter goes home. Home. I haven't been home in, how long have I been here? They brought me here after I fell, under the bridge. Time gets mixed up like, like soup. Like all the ingredients in one pot and you can't tell the carrots from the potatoes anymore.

He makes a bowl. Simple. Just a bowl. Nothing fancy. His fingerprints all over it. I can see my fingerprints sometimes. When the light hits my hands right. All those whorls and lines. Margie used to trace them when we were young. She'd take my hand and trace every line and say, This is your lifeline, Billy. It's so long. You're going to live forever. But she didn't. She didn't live forever.

The fire spirit comes at night. Things always happen at night in stories. Night is when I'm most awake now. During the day I sleep. But at night I'm awake and the hallway lights are dim and sometimes I think I see Margie standing in the doorway, just standing there, not saying anything.

She breathes into the bowl and it glows. It glows. The bowl is still just a bowl but now it has light inside it. Light from inside. And people come and they say, How can fire live in clay? Why would fire choose something so weak?

And the potter says, the potter says,

Oh. Oh, I think I understand now.

The potter says, That's the miracle. Not that the pot is strong. But that the flame chose weakness.

Chose weakness.

God chose me. Even now. Even with my mind all scrambled like eggs. Even with my body falling apart like an old barn. Even with my memories leaking out like water from a cracked pitcher. Even though I can't remember my grandchildren's names but I can remember the taste of clay from seventy years ago. Even though I'm useless. Even though I need help with everything. Even though I'm just, just,

Just clay.

But there's fire. Somewhere. I think there's fire.

Nurse Emily says I'm not useless. She says, You're still you, Mr. Beaner. The light's still in there. I can see it. When you smile. When you tell your rambling stories that don't make sense to anyone but you. When you hold my hand during the storms because you remember I'm afraid of thunder even though I never told you. Isn't that something? Isn't that something.

The bowl glows. It cracks but it glows. The fire doesn't need the pot to be perfect. The fire chose the cracks. Chose them. On purpose. Because, because,

Because the light gets in through the cracks. Or out. Or both. I can't remember which way the light goes. But it goes. The light goes.

I'm tired now. So tired. But I think, I think maybe I'm the bowl. We're all bowls. Margie was a bowl. Nurse Emily is a bowl. My brother, the one that ran away, he's a bowl too. We're all just clay. Cracked clay. Poor clay.

But we glow.

Don't we?

Don't we glow?

I think we do. I think that's the miracle. I think.