Claygallimaufry Pottery: Tuscan Sun

The windowledge is wide. So wide objets d'art can rest there safely. The moon is full. A Persian moon close to the earth. It bathes the whole landscape in silvery splendor. And is so large one could lose oneself in it.
Mary is curled up on the couch, her wooly robe snuggled closely around her. Oversized floppy slippers hug her feet. The rest of the room is dark except for the flicker of burning logs in the fireplace.
The Tuscan Sun languishes there, alone on the sill, mantled in the magic light of moonbeams. Mary's eyes trace its contours lovingly. She remembered the moment he had given it to her. The flavor of the pre-mixed margaritas they had shared, poured from its sparkling interior still teased her senses. Remembering.
Remembering the sun's rays so intense the day shined orange; remembering the seawater so vibrantly blue there were no words to describe the color. Some called it azure blue. Others described it as indigo. Yet now, Mary would name the color as the blue of a broken heart.
One white-capped wave rose grandly above the sea that day. It felt as if the wave was reaching for the heavens. That single moment when the wave threw itself with wild abandon into the day's orangy heat touched the depth and breadth of their love, hers and Stephens. It seemed that the Universe was blessing their union with the perfect landscape.
That had been months ago, before Stephen had been called away. Company business. Hush. Hush.
On that last day as they lay entwined in the hot sands of desire, he whispered in her ear, whispered against the tendrils of her hair, whispered along the softness of her neck, whispered of his return. Promising. Promising to return.
Mary curled more snugly into the couch's embrace feeling the pillows cushion her grief. She watched the moon's ascent and watched it grow smaller as it rose high in the night sky. The moonlight playing on the Tuscan Sun was just as silvery as before, but less intense.
The phone was ringing but she made no attempt to answer it. Where would she find the energy? It would be much too exhausting to endure another pointless conversation with friends consoling her for her loss, or worse yet, some telemarketer selling a product she'd never have occasion to use.
Then she heard the answering machine click on.
"Mary, this is Stephen."
Suddenly overflowing with the buoyant vibrancy of emotion, Mary raced for the phone. Catching the receiver from its cradle, she answered, her voice breathless with wonder.
Stephen !