Kate

17

Summertime Ceramics

Pencil meets paper.
This action has been repeated countless times.
But it’s that pause,
right as they touch,
when the entire world sighs ... knowing, waiting,
for the explosion to begin.
And here it comes...

Yes, it’s the breeze, mother.
That summer breeze, tickling my ears, whispering a language we are not meant to
decipher.
It eggs me on...my eyes close.
Mother, this time, when I think of you,
my words paint...
Chestnut hair that you tuck behind your ear absentmindedly,
just like me.
Laughter pouring from your entire being,
leaving tiny rivers of wrinkles around your eyes,
just like me.
Today,
your fingernails are nonexistent
from nervous snacking.
You hate the cold.
Your current fashion is ever changing.
Now, grey, the new black instead of just grey.
However, blue will always and forever be
your favorite color,
just like me.

When you come to mind,
questions claw at my insides.
Birthmother, each summer
when I have too much time to think,
and the wind whispers,
you become my clay.
I mull you over and over.
Shaping, crafting, as if I know you...
Will I ever know you?

“Kate come inside and help me with this!”
The wind comes to a standstill.
“Coming mom!”