d4 . tia castillo

t i a .

Let it lead your love away
I never strayed
Let it bury you away
In all your blame, in all your pain
I will carry you always

Grandpa was Tia’s best friend growing up.

He would tell her the stories of what the world was like before the Rebellion, he would paint a picture of rolling hills, of freedom and space to dream and live. He could twist the words into a picture so bright and beautiful it would paint Tia’s dreams from dusk till dawn. She loved sitting on his lap, bright brown eyes staring at his weathered face, mother had always told her that she had his button nose, a trait that none of her siblings had. They had the same curly brown hair and skin. She loved the way he would wrap an arm around her and pull her in close, his voice was a soothing lullaby that eased her nightmares and rested her rapid heart.

When he passed away it left a hole in her chest. She filled that empty space with the teacups that had lined his shelves and dilled his workshop. Ones that were from before her time, and ones he had made himself. It hadn’t taken her long to find herself swallowed into his passions, drowning out her own grief through design and craftsmanship. The notebooks he had left for her were filled with designs that she had never seen before, ideas that he had played with, dreams he had wanted to achieve.

Every morning she had spent hours in his workshop with him, watching as he crafted. The gentle care his hands held as he touched the porcelain clay, pulling and teasing out the material to create magic. The way he could turn a lump into a delicate and refined tea cup was incredible, it always left her in awe. By the end of the first hour he would turn to her and beckon her over, sitting her on his lap.

Together they would push and pull at a lump of clay, he would guide her hands, nudging her into the right spots. Then, as she slipped into a groove he would pull away, watching her little face scrunch up in concentration as she worked her clay into something that vaguely resembled a cup.

t i a .

When your eyes can't see, take my eyes from me
When you're lost and losing faith
I will be your saving grace

“Gentle, Tia, remember,” he grabbed hold of her hand, his skin was soft against hers, it was warm and her hand could hardly compare to the length of his fingers. “If you treat it with respect it’ll show the same to you,” she looked at the way he made her hand move, how her fingers caressed the clay, how it moved under her touch to form a delicate curve. He was a magician, breathing magic into everything he created.

“Wow,” Tia breathed the word, eyes wide as the shape fell into place. The clay was cold under her fingers, it was the type of soothing coolness that made you feel at peace with yourself and with your mind. It was a relaxing embrace that you could lose yourself to, she loved it, she accepted it and she hoped that she would be as good as her grandpa one day.

---

These days she moved with the same gentle awareness that he had had. Her touch was as delicate as a neurosurgeon as she manipulated the clay. The cup was small, the edges thin but sturdy and as the potter’s wheel came to a gentle stop her fingers drew away. They were covered in clay and water, she wiped them on her apron, admiring her handiwork for a moment before gently pulling it from the wheel.

She sold them at a little stall on the weekends in the markets, each cup handmade to the best of her ability. She liked to believe that she put a little bit of herself into each of them, a sprinkle of her grandpa as well. She slid the cup into the kiln, there were three of them in there now, it would take some time for them to be ready and she had always appreciated this part of the process, knowing that any of the mistakes she had made on the wheel would reveal themselves.

You couldn’t hide in this art form, but in the end all the little imperfections were a part of the process. Her grandpa liked to believe that it built character into each one. Mistakes were part of learning, he’d say, and if you’d stopped making mistakes you were doing it wrong.

She often wished he was still there with her. Tia liked to believe that he would be proud of what she was doing. She closed the kiln’s door, starting the timer. It’d be a few hours before they were done. Besides the kiln was a shelf of the cups her grandpa had been working on before he passed. There was one sitting there, a handle shaped like an elephant's trunk, extra clay in the sides for ears and it made her heartache when she looked at it.

One day she’d feel like she was good enough to finish his work. Tia wasn’t there yet.