Dear Brother, this is the bowl which was to be your wedding gift. Mr. Hands and I found it on our trip to Sedona last February, in Telaquepaque, that cool looking "artist village" right on the bend in the road to the village from downtown. It was swaddled carefully and nested in the car for days, surviving the trip back home. Then it was laid to roost in the "Harry Potter closet," our cupboard under the stairs, on a shelf until your wedding day.

Until today. It's my fault, really. I heard rustling and Simon was busy with something. I ignored it and just thought that pile of junk mail on the landing, or the basket of newspaper to be recycled. But there was a crash, and a wild-with-panic rust colored blur burst forth from the cupboard (how had he gotten in there?). He had thrust his head through the handle on the brown craft paper bag and was wearing it cape-style. He bucked like a bull out the gate before setting off up the stairs, momentarily loosing his footing on the linoleum landing, then up the rest of the stairs, straight down the hall into the spare room, behind the bed, on the bed, then a 180 degree mid-air spin, a leap off the bed, taking the 90 degree hallway corner at a full sprint, settling for a heartbeat under Mr. Hands' chair, his usual refuge from all things terrifying. I, from downstairs, listened to his flight pattern, his seemingly nimble 10 pound gait sounding like a runaway herd. All sense had left poor Simon, and he ran again to escape the bag but it was along for the ride. I heard him crash around, then retrace his route down stairs, claws desperately scrambling to find footing on the linoleum on the landing, then again on the hardwood floor. He slalomed around the legs of the dining room chairs, bag whapping everything close behind his ears, before making a final frenetic leap to the couch where he crouched, twitching and not blinking, tense and exhausted. I think he heard me call his name the third time; that's when his eyes focused on me. I walked forward cooing, hand out like a sacrificial offering. Grasping his chest just behind the front legs in case he decided to bolt again, I relieved him of his albatross then hugged him close and buried my face in his fur until he struggled against me, not ready to be calm.

The bowl hadn't come out of its newsprint wrapping, so I didn't see at first the jagged chip in the scalloped edge. I thought the bowl I meant to give you and your bride on your wedding day would have a story of a trip to Sedona, the place of childhood memories and family reunions both happy and sad. Instead its story is of a rust colored cat, mischievous, primal and innocent.

Dear Brother, I hope you like the fondu set.