Gemotions

The clatter of the pottery wheel, the wet clay against the ceramic, the rhythmic splashing of water. These were the things that defined her sanctuary. No longer. Now, the space was shared. Her daughter, Maya, was trying to work with clay, getting her apron covered in sludge. And her work, that she had once found so soothing, now only made her feel a rising tide of discomfort.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to smash something. She wanted it to stop. She saw Maya’s face, smudged with clay, lit with excitement, and something hard clicked in her chest. She grabbed her own tools, working fast, and threw the clay with a force that was unusual.