All mam’s worries live inside a teapot. One settlement within a colony of teapots. She has written them on pieces of paper, backs of receipts, parts of used envelopes—all tightly folded and pressed deep into the teapot.

The colony of teapots holds decades of anxieties. She calls each one Pot. Pot usually lives in a hard-to-reach spot, with a booklet or expired calendar stuck in front of him so suspicion will not be aroused, nor will she be tempted to overstuff him. Some of the notes contain dates/times of phone calls or things people have muttered in passing about Martin John. Or that which she suspects they want to ask beyond, How is he getting on in England? The odd prayer or quote lifted from the radio are also slid in. Often the quotes are from dead American presidents. There may be one in there from Einstein or Aristotle. One is from a mechanic, Joe, who gave instructions on what indicated your engine was failing during a Midwest radio phone-in.

Today she will write what will be the final note before she seals this teapot closed with strong tape. There are approximately 11 other pots, full and retired to the top cupboard not far from her bed, so in the event of a fire she might nab a couple and exit. But their population is grown too large now for the quick removal she intended. It has gone on too long. Even if there were a fire, would she even remove herself? Or might she simply burn alongside them?

Each lid has been taped closed and she can track the changes in tape down the years. How she chose thicker tape that year. Or used insufficient tape or tape that didn’t altogether facilitate the level of deteriorating dampness in her house. She hasn’t any emotional attachment to the teapots themselves. They are mere random ones that came her way.

One year she used a stainless steel one, but never again. She hated the idea she could accidentally catch the light or a glimpse of something in the side of it. It also gave her memories of very bad tea brewed in such teapots at weddings and funerals. Since life was a daily funeral, she didn’t turn out for many of them. She only went to funerals where she suspected the person had a good reason to have a grudge against her on account of Martin John. She knew that her absence would suggest guilt.

She always took communion at those funerals and she attended every stage of the mourning. She could imagine a slim crowd at her own funeral. She could see Martin John going to the grave with no one at his funeral. They might go together and make it easy on all.

But her thoughts are now disordered. She has a final note to place inside this grubby-looking teapot and she has to seal it closed. She won’t open another teapot this way she decides. That’s it for the pot, pot, pots as she calls them.

After she put Martin John in the Chair she knew there was no further use for the teapots. What would you be doing firing things into them after that? Ask yourself.