Gathering of women

We’d chatted before, but our real meeting took place over a colossal half-finished clay jug. Abigail panicked and called for help as its handle fell off, and as I stood there holding it in place, she told me a bit about her life and her sons. Meanwhile, she applied extra clay where the handle met the jug, bandaging cracks with vinegar-soaked cloth strips like a mother tending to a child’s wounded knee. The jug was proud, curvaceous and tall, barely surviving the extreme conditions placed upon her: a heavy rounded handle