Clay Figurines

            "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."

            The somber voice droned on as my stomach clinched into a ball of pain.  I felt my husband's arm around me, but instinctively pulled away and drew within myself in a show of bravado.  I watched numbly as others bowed their heads in a final prayer of farewell.

            Twenty years didn't seem long now as my mind clicked through the times we'd had together like a projector shining still shots on the screen of my heart.  

            Alex believed in unconditional love, the kind she said God had for mankind when He sent His son to die.  I'd questioned this concept in any relationship.  In my experience friends came and went like the tide.  I'd never had a long lasting friendship that became an integral part of my life.  Until Alex. 

            "Sam?  Are you ready to go?" my husband asked.

            I looked up.  Cars filed out of the cemetery; their slow procession matching the heaviness of the souls within. 

            "Give me a minute."

            I pulled my sunglasses off and wiped my eyes.  The grass appeared greener and the colors of fall more vibrant with my shades on.  Without them everything was stark naked realism burnished by the sun. 

            The simple casket lay waiting to be covered up.  Death took Alex under cover of darkness; a glitch in her heart that sped her toward eternity.  In all fairness, she should be buried memorably, as she'd lived.

            "Sorry about the simple service, Alex.  I planned a burning pyre but couldn't get your minister to go along with it." 

            Love of God and people set Alex apart from everyone else I'd ever met.  I raised my eyes to the sky and tried to imagine heaven.  I had no doubt she was there now, asking the angels where they bought their robes and schmoozing with the saints. 

            "See you later, kid," I whispered.  

            The line of cars had already disappeared in the distance, but I knew where they were headed.  Many would hurry home, their own mortality ticking away in their minds, to hug their children and reconcile with their spouse.  At least for this day they would remember life was fragile and time fleeting. 

I knew what I had to do.

"Take me to my daughter."

My husband cleared his throat.  "She won't like you interrupting her work."

"I'll deal with it."  I had no energy left to fight, but I had to talk to Charlotte before the day was through.

*****

Charlotte opened the door of her tiny apartment.  Two streaks of gray adorned one cheek as though she'd been applying war paint.  The frown between her eyes indicated annoyance, but she stepped back and let me in. 

Natural sunlight poured through high-set windows onto Charlotte's pottery wheel.  A lump of clay sat unformed, waiting to be created into an object of beauty, a useful vessel.

"What are you doing here?  You know I'm in the middle of preparing for the show." 

I hugged her despite her stiff demeanor.  "I needed to see you.  I miss you."

She shook her head.  "I've only been out of the house a month.  You've got to cut the umbilical cord."

I nodded.  "I know, but it's hard shutting down the maternity wing of my heart."

She sat at the wheel and started it spinning, her hands molding the lump of clay as I watched in awe, completely entranced by her skill as a potter.  The lump began to change and grow, rising higher as she hollowed out the middle with her thumbs. 

"I know you're getting ready for your first show, but Alex was buried today and you never came to say goodbye."

Charlotte glanced up and let the fragile creation collapse inward.  Her lips thinned into a straight line as she stood wiping her hands on the apron around her waist.  "Alex was your friend, Mother, not mine.  I'm sorry I didn't go to the funeral, but what difference does it make?  She's dead, isn't she?  She's dead today, and she'll be dead tomorrow.  I'll visit the grave after the show."

My eyes filled with tears, and I blinked them away.  "Alex thought you were a talented artist."  I glanced around the room at the pieces already finished and awaiting the kiln.  "She told me the Bible likened God to a potter.  Did you know that?"

She rolled her eyes.  "Yeah, sure.  He's up there molding and making us into whatever He desires."

"You're a potter.  Does the clay ever argue that it doesn't want to be a vase, but would rather be a bowl?"

She seemed surprised by my question.  "What are you getting at?"

"Just curious."

She turned away and wet the lump of clay now drying on the wheel.  Unless used it would become hard and unchangeable.

"Ultimately – I win.  I may have to rework it, but I'm the boss."  She faced me with a crooked grin.

I smiled back.  "When I look at you, I see the creator's artistic talent in full bloom."

Charlotte's glance strayed to the floor, and I could tell she struggled with her emotions as I often did.  Finally she raised her eyes now glistening with unshed tears.  "I'm sorry, Mom.  I should have come."

I pulled her into my arms and held her tightly.  My little girl, so like me and yet completely different, a creation all her own.  "I know, honey.  I said things I didn't really mean.  That's why I'm here.  I don't want this gulf between us.  Instead of cutting the cord, could we just work around it?"

She laughed against my shoulder.  "Sure."

I pulled back.  "I love you, you know."

"I know."

I let my hands drop to my sides.  "I better let you get back to work."

She didn't stop me until I was halfway out the door.  "Mom?"

I paused.

"You don't have to worry.  I think the Creator's still molding me."