Empty Vessel

Dear Diary,

Yesterday, Thomas and I took a promenade along a small cobbled stone street  in Montemarte taking in the warm Paris sun and the sights and smells of this bohemian arrondissement  Everywhere I looked there were painters set up on the street enticing young women to be their models and outdoor markets luring customers with fuzzy peaches and plump cherries at their optimal ripeness. The day was going so splendidly and I was conscious to be grateful of having this time to Thomas all my own. Although he is not my husband and always introduces me either as his slave, if in America, or his servant, in France, I cannot help but feel the fingers of love and affections tug at the strings of my heart. His is the father of the child that grows inside me and he takes care of me and loves me more than any master should love his slave.

As we were walking along the streets with my arm linked with his, my eye was caught by the sight of beautiful cream vase. I tugged at Thomas' arm  and steered him toward the shop's window. I stared with admiration of the beautiful craftsmanship of the vase, it curvy, elegant shape and the delicacy of its edge. I could tell this piece was made by the hands of a master. Eager to know Thomas' opinion of the beautiful tiny vase, I asked him what he though of it.

"It is rather plain in my opinion. It doesn't look English made or even exotic, as if made in Africa or in Asia. It is quite neutral and insignificant to me."

Stung by his sharp words, I only managed to nod as if to agree and took one last long look before we continued on our walk. Although there was so much to see and to experience through sight, taste, and smell, my mind was distracted for the rest of the day with the image of the small cream vessel and the echoing of Thomas' words. Plain. Neutral. Insignificant.

I don't understand why his words hurt me so much but I somehow felt those words were not only critical of the artisanship of the vessel, but also of my very being. Last night I closed myself up in my quarters to think this through. Looking down at my hands, I could not help but realize they were of similar coloration as the vessel which in Thomas' words lacked any cultural ties or identity. It and I are neutral and insignificant. Knowing fully well that Thomas loves me and care for me, I suspect that his initial reaction to the vase is also what he innately feels about me and my mixed features. Not really belonging to anything or anyone. Something that doesn't matter, that can be used for your own personal and selfish reasons. To fill up and empty and fill and empty at one's desire... I go to far, Diary. I know I am wrong thinking like this. A slave girl aught not to thinking of her master this way.

A Bientot,

Sally Hemings