[ RF ] Write a product preview for a teapot . Move me with it .

I highly recommend this delightful little teapot. 
 
 The spout is gently tapered, and the handle fine for small fingers. It is n't a fragile presentation piece; when my mother was young, she would play hostess, boiling pots of imaginary tea for guests whilst my grandmother served the real thing. The attendees of these small gatherings would indulge her, yelping either in delight at the perfectly stewed blend, or in feigned horror at their scorched tongues. Sometimes my mother would throw a tantrum when teased, and toss the teapot and its make-believe contents across the room - much to my grandmother's embarrassment. The sturdy spout, stout body and handle remained intact through every strop. 
 
 The hand-painted decoration features a swathe of red poppies stretching from the lid to the foot - it is n't artwork worthy of a gallery, but it has naive charm. It reminded my grandmother of the fields of poppies plastered on post-war remembrance posters. 
 
 When I visited my senile mother in autumn last year, her mind had flown back to a time when her only worry was imaginary tea, and I was a burden to be be born in a distant future. She sat with this teapot held proudly aloft, the delicate skin of her hand cuddling the handle like it was the paw of a beloved teddybear. It was the only belonging she'd kept from the old house. 
 
 She slowly leaned over to me, and motioned with the spout towards the cups and saucers presented on the table. In that moment she was n't my mother, and I was n't her son - I was a guest, perhaps a friend from the factory where my grandmother worked, here to gossip over a hot brew. Her face wore the folds and furrows eighty years of life had gifted her, but her eyes shone with the impetuousness and joy of a youth spent spoilt and free. 
 
 I offered the cup to her eager hand, and she poured. I imagined the sound of the liquid, the patter of the last drop, the quiet hiss of steam. I raised the cup to my mouth, and breathed in. I imagined the heat, rolling up my cheeks and staving off the autumn chill. I imagined the smell, earthy and rich. I imagined the taste, bittersweet. 
 
 `` It's perfect, Mama.'' 
 
 She beamed with pride, and proceeded to hand an empty cup of tea to every nurse and visitor she could cater for. 
 
 Now she's gone, the teapot sits gathering dust on my kitchen shelf, but given a good clean the cracked glaze softly sparkles when it catches the light.
