Contemplations on My Small Pot

Up for a glass of cold water in the night,
my attention was snared by a little pot
sitting with a bizarre funny little pink alien
ensconced upon its lid,
on my kitchen window sill,
where it has held forth,
unnoticed and disregarded
for the 11 years I have been in this house.

Curious that it reposes in conspicuous sight,
looked at, yet unseen, every day.
I take the  jar and pink guardian
down and sit, reacquainting with my treasure.
The bottom of the wood vessel is inscribed
“Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.  1996,’
and below in flourished letters,
“Carrillo,” the craftsman.

Carved from wood of the Copal tree,
I remember it once wafted forth delightful  aromas
when the lid was removed.
Those smells have  departed now,
along with my waning attention.
But I have renewed my interest
in the polished porcelein-like finish
carvers so value, working this wood.

Bands of subtle faded colors
of blue and green and brown stains
highlight carved folk flowers and leaves,
along with geometric Mayan borders.
A small turned wooden grasp sits atop the lid.
My pot was likely purchased in a gift shop or departure
airport kiosk, brought home, and gifted to me,
a memento of a journey or,  of friendship.

My pot’s companion, a stifled flibbertigibbet,  eye-candy alien,
sat staunch on the lid for as long as I remember.
I cannot recall when and why the two were melded together,
but they now are joined as an old married couple,
unknown as to the why in  junction of the two, and what meaning was sought.
This moment’s new ponderance has awakened thoughts
that maybe my life’s grand puzzle is represented in little pieces like this pot-
important totems that have faded from significance. 

They physically remain, even as we look through them,
just as we do clouds, bookshelves, photographs, and junk drawers.
Now and again they rejoin us as reminders,
“Hey, I’m still here, remember me.”
They tell us our story is not just today’s focused coping,
but precious threads that join us to ourselves, to our friends and to life.
When we depart this realm, along with our memories,
our pots will remain as vexing vessels, artifacts of us.

In this case, my little pink alien sentry
is but a chuckle in the foible and vanity of it all.
This little thing is large part in me,
while sitting on my windowsill, unnoticed consciously,
but still a comfort, bonding me to my life,
and reminding me that all “meanings”
are but joking matters,
reminders that life is not to be taken so seriously.

My attention span broken,
I rise from the table to get furniture polish and  rag
to polish up and renew Carrillo’s pot.
I smile in recollection that nubbin remnants of old “doobies” once filled this pot.
Now, I figure after all these years of being a “It”
my funny alien deserves the dignity of a name,
so, with that, I put my newly burnished pot and a scrubbed up “Ralph”

back in their place upon my kitchen windowsill.

-Jerry Wendt 2020