Happy Mother’s Day

She smiled as the clay whirled underneath her skilled hands. The pottery wheel hummed as the Artisan worked, spinning the lump of dense soil into a vessel. A dusty stool helped her crouch over the knee high tool, allowing her to sit close enough to work without hurting her back.

Inside the Artisan Shop, fine pots, mugs, plates, dishes, tyreens, and all sorts of crockery filled every surface. Some were the dull red of the local clay, many were glazed. Centaurs played alongside elves while unicorns frolicked across wide serving platters.

The hessian sack, hung in the doorway for a little privacy from the street, flicked aside and a young boy ran inside. “Aunty, Aunty…” he panted, before coming to a halt in front of the pottery wheel.

Footsteps hurried after him, and a girl child crashed into him.

“He stole from me, Aunty,” she sulked.

The boy turned his back to the Potter and the Artisan saw his tongue poke out at his sister.

The humming of the Pottery Wheel ceased, and she turned her attention to the two children.

“What happened. You two were playing so nicely earlier. What is this confusion?”

The girl and boy talked all at once, their voices bubbling with fact and fiction.

The Potter stood up and beckoned to both children.

“Have you forgotten your manners? Tell me, why were you sent to me in the first place.”

Hanging their heads, the boy blushing, the girl sneaking a sideways look at him and clasping his hand to comfort him, they fell silent.

The Artisan continued, “Isn’t it Mother’s Day? What present have you both?”

Silence greeted her.

“Out of all the items you see in my shop, which do you think your Mum would like the best? Work together you two.”

Brother and sister walked around the shop together, heads together as they whispered, working on the task at hand – picking the nicest gift for their Mother.

Finally, after several laps of the little front room which served as the front of the business, the boy reached up and reverently picked up a humble red teapot. Shyly, he peeked a look at his sister. She nodded.

The Artisan Potter smiled at her sister’s two children.

“I’m proud of you. You worked well together. Take it to your Mother as your gift to her.”

The boy wrapped his palms around the little teapot, securing it even more by holding it close to his small chest. His sister led the way out past the hessian sack.

The Artisan sat back at her wheel. Job done, she was content to finish the dish she had started. The humming became louder as the wheel picked up speed, clay whirring between her wet palms once more.

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