Gemotions

My pottery studio, once a haven of quiet contemplation, now echoed with the rhythmic thud of my son, Ben, wedging clay. His hands, usually clumsy, moved with surprising confidence, mimicking the graceful gestures I'd spent years perfecting. I leaned against the doorframe, watching.

The sheer volume of clay he was working with was staggering. My hands began to ache just looking at the mass he was manipulating.

“Ben, are you sure you need *that* much clay?” I inquired, gesturing towards a towering mound.

He didn't even acknowledge me, focused on the task at hand. His tongue peeked from between his lips.