Page 43 of Good Dirt

Trouble

1847

H e supposed the signs of trouble had been there for weeks, but he had preferred not to think about them. Moses was bent over the worktable, now, thinking of what had transpired four days past. It had been a terrible thing, and now his heart felt like it was lying on its side, struck down by a deep sorrow. This was a world where a person could suffer. Even more so when one had experienced love. It had been a long while since Moses had felt this low.

After everything that had happened, the world felt cruelly normal. He awoke that morning to the usual trilling of the rusty-headed sparrows. That love-hungry woodpecker was out there, too. Pick-pick-pick-pick-pick. Now he heard something of significant size rustling around in the garden patch. Raccoon, most likely. He’d have to go and run the animal out of there. Take care not to get himself bitten in the process.

His right knee clicked as he straightened his body. Then he felt a twinge in his neck as he bent to pick up his boots. The nature of his work could have that effect. Moses turned the shoes upside down and knocked them together to check for critters, one-two-three . In that moment, he could pretend he was in a peaceful place. He could pretend there was nothing to think of but the cricks in his body and the noises of the morning.

Most days, he would find himself back in that same space in his head when he was at the wheel. Moses would center a lump of clay on the stand and start kicking to turn the table. He would lean in and squeeze the clay with both hands as the wheel slowed. Push in from the sides and down from above. Wet his hand and sprinkle some water over the mound. Then kick-kick-kick at the wheel. Press down, lift up. Form a cone, then down again.

When the time was right, Moses would push his fingers into the middle of the mound, then pull the sides up and out. As the vessel took shape, he did not think about who he was, or where he was, or how many pieces he and the other turners would be obligated to produce that day. He thought only of the one piece of clay in his hands, and the speed of the wheel, and how his mother used to hold him and murmur to him about the energy that flowed from the raw clay into her hands. How the earth could give back a bit of what a man could take away.

But on this particular day, Moses was thinking about what his life had come to, and as he looked back at all that had happened, his thoughts would leave their imprint in the clay.