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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/book “Faces” cc&d, v286 (the September/October 2018 issue) Order this as a 6"x9" paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book This is Where I Life the cc&d Sept./Dec. 2018 issues & chapbooks collection book		get the 372 page Sept./Dec. 2018 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN#035; paperback book:

SYNOPSIS: When a woman visits her father’s rest home, she discovers him lost in empty memories. But a simple plant in a terracotta pot helps him face the truths of his past and find release from his pain.

Clay Pots

Stephen Matlock

    “Daddy.”
    William Amos opened his eyes to see his daughter Livette carrying a plant in a dull orange terracotta pot. He jerked at his tablet, and Miles Davis’ “Blue in Green” faded away. “What... That.” He shifted in his upholstered chair, then hit a button to raise himself to a sitting position.
    “It’s a dwarf amaranth. Like Momma used to grow.” She set it on the table next to him in his small room. “I like the way it’s purple and green all at once.” She sniffed the air. “Smells like stale aftershave...”
    “Mmph.” He turned away to stare out to the lawns and flowerbeds surrounding Ramona Gardens, his home now since the stroke three years ago.
    Livette opened the window. “Ahh. Fresh air.”
    He nodded when she turned. “Careful,” he whispered.
    “With what, Daddy? The window?”
    “Scratch... Table... Pot...” His words flared like a guttering candle.
    She moved the amaranth closer to the window. “It needs light. Don’t worry—I didn’t scratch anything.”
    “Why...here.”
    She narrowed her eyes and sat down on the other chair. “You know what today is. Seventeen years.”
    He grimaced, then twisted away.
    “Goddammit. It happened. I was there.” She moved her chair to face him, knees to knees. “So were you.”
    He squeezed his eyes shut.
    “You will remember.” She cradled his hands. They were gnarled and spotted, and once they had split the air from the pulpit as he thundered about God and creation, heaven and hell, sin and forgiveness. Now they were restless and idle with age.
    He blinked. Twice. Then coughed. “Hurts.”
    “Yes. It does.” She released his hands. “I miss her. Remember Easter where she forgot to put the mac and cheese in the oven in time? You said it was just fine, and you ate it? Stubborn old man.”
    He wheezed out a laugh, then pointed at her. “You. Too.”
    She guffawed. “We all did. You, the aunties and uncles, all the cousins. Pretended it was delicious. She was so mad.” She wiped a tear. “Goddammit! I miss her so much.”
    He winced. “Kye...?”
    “My baby? He’s fine. Couldn’t come today. Got accepted to NYU. Pre-med. Gonna be a long haul. But I made him strong.” She opened an image on her phone. “Graduation a year early. So handsome. All of us there, ‘cept you.”
    He took her phone, tapped the picture, then touched her face on the screen. “...you.”
    “Oh, he’s so much like you, Daddy. I got your nose and Momma’s eyes, but he’s got your brains.”
    He tried to wipe a tear, but gave up, and let his arm collapse.
    “Here. Let me.” She dabbed his face with a tissue. “So ashy.” She caressed his smooth bald head, looked into his eyes. “Momma’d yell at you, seeing you like this. You’re not going anywhere, not seeing anyone. Like you gave up. Stopped living.”
    He scowled. “Don’t. Wanna.” He turned away. His wife’s face on the nightstand looked back at him, smiling and happy on their Hawaiian vacation. He touched the picture, almost pushing it over. “Remember...”
    “Wish I had her patience and her kindness.” Livette sighed. “I just yell at people. ‘You call that a financial report?’ I sound like you a lot.” She sighed again. “Am you.”
    “What.” He raised his eyebrows.
    “Just thinking. That night changed us. Separated us. Or maybe, just hardened us. Fired the soft clay, set us to be rigid, like this.” She tapped the pot with her fingernail. It made a dull snick. “I got angry. Rough. But it got me to finish my MBA, get my job. You? You got fiercer. Louder. Stirred up the congregation to take action, fight street violence, set up after-school events. But we both lost ourselves in just doing.” She took in a breath. “Momma was all about being. Being kind. Generous. Being herself.”
    She picked up another framed picture from the bureau. “I love this picture. Me. Raymond. And little Kye. So precious.” She wiped a smudge away, and then put the picture back. “How I wish Momma could’ve seen Kye. Held him. Held me, just one more time.”
    He wheezed again, and coughed. Tears rolled down both cheeks. “Tried. Couldn’t—”
    “You did all you could, Daddy. You tried to get the gun. You protected me and—” She patted her belly. “Kye. He wouldn’t be here without you. Momma knows that.”
    William spasmed, trying to reach the amaranth, and knocked it to the floor. He began gasping and crying.
    “Shh, now, Daddy. I know you didn’t mean to. Knock it over, I mean.” She dabbed his face again with a tissue, wiping his tears. “I miss her, too.”
    She stood, then bent down to pick up the broken plant. “So pretty. Well, we’ll just have to get you something else.” She rubbed a leaf between her fingers. “Remember the callaloo she made? Reminded her of home, she said. I can’t make it like hers. But...I try.”
    William stared past her, focused somewhere past the walls of his room.
    “The pot’s still good.” She shook the dirt into the trash, set the pot on the table, and tinged it with her fingernail. “See? Not cracked. Rings when you tap it.”
    She stood next to him. “Now you take care until I come back. Play your music, watch some TV, and get out of this room once or twice. Ellie next door’s got an eye on you. Momma would like that. Seventeen years is a long time to stay empty. A pot needs a plant to be appreciated.”
    She kissed his head. He didn’t look up, but shut his eyes and smiled.
    “’Bye now, Daddy. Love you. See you next month.”
    After she closed the door, he released his breath, then opened his eyes. “Milestones” filled the air. The sun shining through the window lighted the terracotta so it glowed like a rosy pink morning.
    He sighed, grabbed his cane, and stood up slowly. Then firmly.
    “All right.”

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