It is a little odd, to be asked what one would like. Fame and fortune, perhaps. Enough words when times become wordless. Just now is one of those times, all the words missing and even the coherence behind them.
And yet, he asks, tell me one thing you would like. So I say a blue and white bowl; it is blue willow, the pattern, as he likely will have guessed. The interwoven tales move thus, for willow is significant to him as well as to me.
It is small, a desire for such a thing. At the same time, for me, to be able to speak it, is like for some speaking of a darkest fantasy.