She dipped her hands into water before cupping them around a blob of clay she had thrown on to the wheel. The clay was cold. The wheel began to spin. She kneaded it, using the rhythmic motion that started every dance. Drawing it up and pushing it down, centering it on the wheel. The clay warmed to her touch. It yielded to the guidance of her fingers as she began drawing it up into the shape her hands knew so well. The shape her hands had touched every morning. It had shattered with news of the accident.
She pushed the feelings of frustrations, anger and loss from her mind. She didn’t want to infuse the clay with those emotions. Instead she closed her eyes and focused on the memory of that long-ago day, a day she recalled as if it were yesterday. She could smell the scent of him, feel the heat of his body as he placed his hands on hers. She felt the clay being molded by her hands, changing with the pressure she applied.
She stopped the wheel and opened her eyes, smiling at the form which stood before her. It wasn’t exactly the same, it could never be that. But it would bring her at least some comfort. She carefully removed it from the wheel and attached the handle. She knew the next steps, they wouldn’t be easy to endure. Time to cure, time to endure the fire of the kiln, and the multiple steps of glazing to forge the impenetrable outer layer that would protect the contents.
The day had finally arrived to open the kiln. Inside her best friend waited for her, the one who knew all her secrets, her sorrows and her happiness.
“Yes Friend, the coffee is ready. Should we try it out?”
The steaming brew cascaded into the cobalt blue interior. She stared at the black pupil encased in blue. His eyes. No, it wasn’t exactly the same. But it would have to be close enough. Close enough to allow her to return to the daily rhythm of life, close enough to pretend that she was moving on.
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer