I call this one The Watcher.
Sculpture mix; nutmeg and brown glazing.
Tonight felt right for pulling him out and taking a few potshots.
Dusky, dusky mood.
My mother would have been 76 today.
From my earliest days, she fostered my devotion to stories and magic.
Real magic: the sort you can find in the webbing of a frog's foot, in the whiskers of a ginger cat, in the earth around a tomato plant's roots, and in the sand, rock, and salt of the seashore. Driftwood, windfall, found coin. I am the son of a witch, as she always claimed, for which I am so grateful.
I wish you'd found the time and space to learn the piano, Mom. When I realize that I've been putting something -- some possible joy, however arduous or demanding -- off for too too long, I think of that wish of yours.
