Old Ruth's Jar

Ruth Okafor had a small shop on Mill Road, and in that shop sat a kiln almost as old as Ruth. For forty springs Ruth had built bowls, cups, and jugs from clay, and sold all of it to anybody passing by. But through all that long span, Ruth had a solitary wish: to throw a jar so tall and so thin that it could hold a lily and nothing but that lily.

Many had told Ruth it was foolish. Clay, soft and damp, will slump if you pull it too high. A jar that thin will crack in a hot kiln. Ruth's own grandson, Tomas, said so at lunch on Sunday.

"Nana, you try it all day long," Tomas said, cutting his toast. "It always falls. Why not stop?"

Ruth just shook a gray, curly mop. "If I stop, I am just a woman who sold cups. If I try, I am still an artist."

So on a cold morning in March, Ruth sat at a spinning disk with a lump of damp clay. Ruth's hands brought it up, slowly, slowly, past a forearm, past a full foot, thumbs pushing out, palms holding in. Its walls grew as thin as a fingernail. It did not slump. It stood tall, a slim brown column, as calm as a cat.

Firing was worst. Ruth slid it into that old kiln and could not think, could not drink a cup of cocoa for six long hours.

At dusk, Ruth swung its door back. Warm air hit Ruth's brow. And in that glow, on a slab of brick, stood a jar, tall and intact, without a crack.

Ruth ran to a vacant lot past Mill Road, cut a wild lily from its stalk, and slid it into that jar. It fit just right. Ruth sat down on a stool, and for a long, happy hour, Ruth did not say a word.

Word count: 318