Registration Mark on the Tail End of a Jug Placed on a Table in 'The Dead'

Did Joyce trace his finger over the jug on the old oak table in 'The Dead' - you know the one, the one where the snowflake landed. The one where I gently rubbed my fingers that time. Dear Jimmy, you made the touch of gently lifting the green slip-in-my-arm gestured handle of it. Up above you, you looked at the watery mark. Shimmery fish-eye blue slitty lines. What was it you said? Moulded. Moulded into the delicate shine of raise and bumps. Such a glorious snow-storm that evening. Don't you drop it, you whispered into my ear. The raised pears of porcelain. Running your fingers over it. Our wet mornings in the dew at Howth, it told me of fingers there. Seed-cake - tiny diamond chips, enamelled fingers that lay there on white skin. The two little pin-holes where they fire the glaze.

Replace me with a plaque. What this is, he said, was a rare and beautiful piece. I only paid little for it. If it happened to be rarer than that, you would keep it forever. You held my cheek in your palm. I was embossed with your letter. Gold and in the light, I never felt so beautiful as there, my dear Jimmy boy. 1910, and the delicate, amateur chippings were so carved that they left me shaped as joy. William, John, Henry, mum, sister, working those waters. We searched for Jack in the puddles and pools there at the tip of Martello. We looked down. Oaky and secure. I slip inside. Feel raised, outwardly. Witty and brown eyed, I look so rose-pip. I love my darling very, very much, I breathed into my Jimmy's ear. As you put down the vase, the raised places amongst carved, detailed wood, we rubbed sides. We daubed our love on each other's cheeks with lips. Un-like anything. Competently done, you smiled.