Tessa unpacked in her new apartment. She’d purposefully shed herself of belongings for this new start, but some items had to accompany her. She was ready for the box she’d saved for last. It wasn’t large. She sat on her love seat with the box on her lap. Holding it firmly between her hands, she closed her eyes and reflected on what the last thirty years had meant. Opening her eyes, she carefully pulled the tape off the top on the box. Setting the box on the floor between her feet, she opened the cardboard flaps. Lifting off the top layer of packing material, she placed it on the seat beside her. Wrapping her fingers around each side of the packed item, she gently pried it loose and lifted it to her lap. She lovingly unwrapped the vase and turned it perpendicular to her and held it on it’s side so she could gaze upon it. Memories came flooding back, and she smiled. She turned it in her hands, feeling it’s imperfections. To anyone else, it looked like a junior high art project, which is what it was. To Tessa? Oh, so much more. It was pride, encouragement…hope.

This vase had been half her grade for an entire grading period in the eighth grade. She wasn’t gifted in art. She barely produced anything acceptable, but for this project — she couldn’t even remember what the process was, but they rolled out clay and formed objects with it. They applied glaze, and fired it in the kiln. Well, they weren’t allowed to use the kiln — Mr. Iverson had done that.

She’d formed the vase by rolling it out and applying a texture to it — a crocheted doily from the looks of it now — before forming it onto the base and pinching it on to make it a solid construction. In her case, she wanted it to hold water. A leaky vase wouldn’t be much good. Before she formed her vase onto the base, she pressed an additional item into the clay.

Tessa ran her fingers over the imprint now, as she’d done thousands of times before. Her mother and father’s wedding rings, symbolizing their love for each other, and, she knew, their love for her.

Her grandparents had kept her after that awful night when she was five and her parents had been hit by a train on the way home from seeing a movie. Gran had recovered their wedding rings and cleaned them up enough so her five-year-old self didn’t realize the carnage symbolized by the damage on them.

Clear as if it was yesterday, she remembered Mr. Iverson saying, “Tessa, this piece is strong and a unique expression of your creativity. Good job.” Her twelve-year-old self hadn’t realized Mr. Iverson’s praise of her project was really just a kind way of saying it was bulky and pretty darned ugly. But back then, when it mattered, those words buoyed her through the dark personal struggles she was having. What had she been feeling? It hadn’t been good, that’s for sure. Mr. Iverson’s praise didn’t make everything all right, but it had been a turning point in her life. For the better.
She’d applied plenty of glaze around the seam on the bottom. There was no way this vase would ever leak once it was fired. That’s why she always kept artificial flowers in it. Gran had helped her make the bouquet. Kicking the box from between her feet, she carefully set the vase on the floor. Picking up the top packing material, she unwrapped the bouquet. With a little primping, it returned to it’s former glory, almost as good as when she and Gran had finished it.

Placing the bouquet in the vase, she lifted with both hands, stood up, and walked across the room to the mantlepiece of her fake fireplace. Placing the vase in the center, she stepped back and nodded approval. She was home — with the symbol of all who had ever loved her in a place of honor.

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