That was my cue.
My tattered dress brushed against my thin legs.
My petite tube socks slid against her Saltillo tile.
I like to think she kept that wooden chair there,
just for me.
I knelt on its straw seat.
My small belly rested against her sea green counter.
There they were.
Bright and crisp, from her garden.
She became accustomed to the pattern I created.
It became ours.
“Stop that,” she would say.
But her smile gave her away.
“Get a bowl darlin’.”
I ran to her shelves—
her mural, to me.
Rich Turquoise, adobe and steel hues
towered over me.
Imperfect stacks in straight rows.
My chipped fingernails slid across
the only row they could reach.
I examined each ceramic,
but chose the same one,
The once clump of clay
looked like it had been dipped in sand,
Adorned with a ring of Turquoise.
Small marks of cerulean created perfect blemishes
on its glazed body.
I embraced it,
imagining her rough and gentle hands
delicately forming it.
Our hands worked together,
placing what I hadn't eaten inside the bowl.
But, momentous to me.