SIERRA'S LEONE

MR. POTS X POTTERY

The request took Sierra off the guard. Jonas's reactions had the hack of surprising her. The man never said or did something she expected.

Sierra came back to stand next to him. She switched Leone from one arm to another.

"Perhaps you can lay him in your car."

Sierra began to tap on her jogger's pockets, remembering she had her car keys with her just in case she had to tail him. The woman already saw herself stalking the man's whereabouts by following him undercover police style.

Sierra clicked the car door open and slid Leone's stroller inside. She covered Leone with the plaid she left in the car.

She caressed his head; the boy slept profoundly. Hands freed, Sierra returned by Jonas.

"How long have you been doing this?"

"I started at a young age. I was a hyperactive child and a restless teen. Before throwing pottery, I drove my parents up the wall. Pottery appeases me. The process of building and creating comforts me somehow."

Sierra listened; she realized how poised Jonas was in all circumstances. Even here, where he found no sleep, he managed to come across as calm and peaceful.

The man smiled at the memory that came to mind, "Cecile used to say it was boring. She called me granny pots amongst a string of devaluating adjectives."

When angry, Jonas would go and work with his clay. The man preferred transforming the negative feelings to fuel his creativity instead of saying things he did not mean. Jonas then recalled how Cecile shattered a good part of his work. He sat poised in a total autistic manner pressing on the pedal and formed a new vase.

"Jonas, don't ignore me. Look at me, look at me. You want me to stay with you when all you care about is Moder Yord and these frigging vases, plates, and pots. I never thought you'd become a slave to capitalism. This man isn't you. I thought you wanted to do things for the environment. Now you wish to sign with all these companies. Hey, is silence you're new technic? Do you think it will help you?" the woman yelled.

Cecile provoked him, he hated her violent ways, but he loved her more. Of course, Jonas withheld himself from telling Sierra the sad part of the story. The woman only retained Cecile called him by bird's names.

Sierra put her hands in front of her mouth to muffle her laugh. "Sorry, it's so, Cecile. She has no patience or filter on her mouth."

Jonas paused, and Sierra realized she spoke in the present tense.

"I meant she had no patience," Sierra rectified.

Cecile was still present and alive in their mind. Her spirit lingered, and they had a difficult time admitting that they were not done with grieving.

"Do you want to try?"

Cecile criticized him for not letting her enter her bubble. With Sierra, Jonas discovered how hopeless one could feel when the other held back to protect themselves.

Life was an everlasting course where one retook the exams of failed experiences, so Jonas tried to pierce the invisible bubble around Sierra.

He would share these elements of his traits that constituted his being. No matter how small the thing was. In the present, it was his passion for pottery the man wished to show in the still of the night.

Sierra shook her hands in front of her, "no, Jonas, you know I'm not good with my hands."

"I think your hands just haven't find the right activity."

"Jonas."

"Come on," the man beckoned.

"My fingers can't do anything else except tapping on remote controls or a phone's virtual keyboard and hold a knife and fork to eat, you know it, Jonas."