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Bowl
Cami Park
The potter decides to try something
different. With damp hands he transforms bone-white clay into a delicate thin-walled
vessel wide enough and deep enough to contain its own emptiness. It takes
many days to dry, after which the bowl is fired, unglazed. Its symmetry is
perfect.
Fragile and huge, the bowl sits in a booth in a crowded craft market, an odd
piece among the potter's more colorful and practical wares. Children dare
each other to curl up inside it and are shooed off by adults who then paw the
bisque for imperfections before choosing something bright and useful. So it
goes, until a tiny, pretty wife arrives with a large, impressive husband. The
wife circles the bowl once, then twice, without touching it. She looks to the
husband as she inquires about the price, and a purchase is made. The wife
squeezes her husband's arm and smiles.
The bowl is placed carefully on a large low table in the best room, where the
carpet and furniture is white and plush and children and shoes are not
allowed. This is where drinks are served, but it's risky and uncomfortable
and the guests usually end up in the kitchen, standing around with their
glasses in their hands.
Sometimes, when the house is empty, the tiny wife sits on the plush white
couch in front of the bowl and imagines herself curled up inside it. She sits
there a long time, daring herself, thinking, what would her husband do if he
returned home to find her so contained? Would he react impressively, striding
about and waving his arms while making perfectly sensible points in a
perfectly rational tone, before retiring to his study to make a series of
important phone calls? Or would he fix himself a drink and sit uncomfortably
on the edge of the couch, across from the bowl overflowing with emptiness and
his tiny wife, an odd piece in the plush room, silence settling like dust
between them?
She holds a magazine in her hands, just in case.
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