100 Words: Akhilanda Rides Again and Again and Again

Imagine you’re holding a dish that you love.
Maybe it was your grandmother’s.
The one with rose-colored strawberries and flowers and an unusual scalloped edge.
Or the one from that great store in Portland with a hand-painted artichoke in the center.
Or the one that you made with your own hands on the wheel. Glazed in green and white.
This perfect dish.
Whole.
One static consistent piece.

Imagine that whole perfect dish slipping from your hands and breaking into a thousand pieces.
Imagine the infinite number of mosaics you could create with the pieces.
Broken, it is limitless.

You, too.