Page 35 of When Wildflowers Bloom

Tension from what she’s implying makes my shoulders creep toward my ears, and I drop my head toward my shoulder to ward it off.

“Coincidence,” I say, quickly diverting with, “What’s on the agenda today?”

She huffs. “Ignore me! Fine! What do I know? I’m just the old lady with crooked hands!” Then said hands are waving above her head.

“Iamignoring you. What do you want to do? I can clean?”

“Have it your way,” she sighs, looking around the sunroom. “I want to teach you to glaze, so we’ll work on that. Then maybe I’ll show you how to throw on the wheel if you want. And it’s nice out, so we can go work in the garden.” I nod in agreement, loving how that whole day sounds. “And then, when I let you put these ridiculous gloves on me, we’ll talk about my grandson.”

Before I can respond, she shoves a canister of glaze in my hands.

Frustration sticks to me like superglue on fingertips all day. Annoying. Inescapable. Obvious.

Veda starts things off easy with the glaze. It’s just painting, but for some reason those three coats on my small bowl feel like I’m trying to recreate theMona Lisa. There are thumbprints and brush hairs and puddles. I want to throw it against the wall.

Behind the wheel, all hell breaks loose. Veda doesn’t yell, which might have been easier, instead she guides me with a singsong cadence to her voice that peaks with every last word, frustrating me to the point of grinding my teeth.

When the lump of clay floats all over the spinning wheel, her, “You’ve used too much water,” song makes my nostrils flare. “Your elbows aren’t tucked,” is sang on a loop along with, “You aren’t applying equal amounts of pressure with both hands.”

It’s after she asks, “Are you even trying?” that I pull my foot off the pedal and glare from the blob of clay to her.

“I can’t do this,” I snap.

She scoffs. “Of course you can. You aren’t listening to the clay, Birdie.”

I use my clay-caked hand to cup my ear.

“I listened—it said I should quit.”

Another scoff. “You’refightingit.”

Of course I’m fighting it—this glorified piece of mud is fucking annoying.

“Start the wheel.” I push the pedal, reluctantly. “Now, hold the clay like I showed you.”

I do as she says, making a tight C-shape with my palm and fingers before wrapping it around the wet spinning ball.

“Now, take your other hand and chop down on the center.”

Again, I follow her directions.

“Now, close your eyes,” she says softly.

My eyes narrow, silently asking,How the hell is that going to work?

Her eyes dance with a knowing response of,Your eyes open isn’t getting you anywhere.

On a heavy sigh, I close my eyes.

“Now, feel the clay.”

She pauses as my hands mold to the wet grit of the moving lump.

“If you start to get frustrated—feel the clay. If you start to get distracted—feel the clay.”

So I do.

Spinning beneath my hands, when it gets too wide, I pull with my outside hand. As it gets too tall, I push with the outer edge ofthe hand on top. Back and forth, back and forth, until my hands find a rhythm with the spinning of the clay.

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