That’s My Jar

DAVE, 1826

 

It takes three days

for the furnace to cool.

Even before the sun comes up

on the last day,

I smell the ash.

Little John and me,

we climb the hill

to the furnace.

Doctor Landrum and Master Drake

are already there.

Doctor Landrum’s voice is clear.

“Morning, boys,” he says.

“You ready?”

 

I unbrick the door.

Little John hands me the jars

one by one,

warm and shining

in the rising sun.

Doctor Landrum says,

“See that green?

Have you ever seen a color

shimmer like that?”

He holds my jar,

the big one with the lip

and glaze dripping

down the sides.

“Now, that’s a jar,”

he says,

forgetting it was me

who dug the clay,

and centered the mound,

and pushed my weight

against the wheel,

forgetting it was me

who rolled the clay

for the handles

thick and solid.

See the thumbprints

on the sides?

Those are from my hands.

 

We line up the jars and jugs

by the road

for all of South Carolina

to come and see our wares.

Whoever buys the big one

will never know

I made that jar.