Photo by Maria Kovalets on Unsplash
by Brett W. Summers
The huge ceramic pot arrived from the art island in Japan in a wooden box sturdy enough to serve as a side table in our living room. My husband Gerald reached out to caress the pot’s bumpy, dynamic surface with an eagerness I haven’t known for some time.
I first climbed into the box when I needed a break from household tasks and my husband’s constant presence. It was a tight, cozy fit that reminded me of swaddling our daughters all those years ago, and I could hear Gerald pass through the room calling out, looking for me. Now I head to the box regularly, reveling in being held and hidden in a place where I can think only about breathing, a place where I get to decide when I’m ready to leave – only then do I lift the lid, step out, stretch my limbs like a rousing baby, and blink to adjust to the light of responsibilities and relationship.
“There you are!” Gerald exclaims with an edge of annoyance, but I like knowing I’m in control.
Brett W. Summers taught high school English and raised children. She spends a sixth of her life off the grid and walks her dogs every day. She rows, paints with oils, and strives to suck the marrow out of life in Providence, RI.
