If The Potter Has A Sure Hand

I do not know where this person has gone to. It’s only three or four years ago, but only the faint outlines of him are visible in the current model of miniature wrecking crewman that still sleeps in the old version’s bed.

I don’t recognize the place, either. It’s from a fever dream. I only remember the illness, not the sickbed. I’m better now, so it doesn’t trouble me.

We only have one bathroom in our house now, so one can’t dawdle in there. The little feller was in a hurry to brush his teeth because it was time for school, but I was about to take a shower. He knocked, and asked, and I let him in.

“You didn’t close the door properly, Dad.”

It seemed a very… studied formulation of words for a nine-year-old to use.  I was curious.

“What part of speech is properly, son?”

“It’s an adverb.”

“Which word in that sentence does it modify?”

“Close.”

“What kind of word is close?”

“A verb.”

My wife teaches that boy, and his big brother. I hardly ever see it done; the boys learn in their rooms, and I’m working one or two floors away all the time. But by gad, it happens. You can barely make out the outline of the raw material after a while. But it’s there if you look hard. Good clay makes a great pot, if the potter has a sure hand.