Gemotions

The silence in the pottery studio was almost unbearable. The scent of clay and glaze, usually comforting, now seemed to mock her. She’d always assumed she’d have more time, more chances to learn. But no. The note pinned to the kiln, curt and impersonal, was the only farewell.

Her hands moved through the familiar motions of the potter's wheel, but the clay felt unfamiliar, resistant. Her heart felt heavy, the rhythm of the spinning wheel seemed to echo her own unsettled state. She splashed water onto the clay, trying to center herself, to find the peace she usually derived from this craft.

She had so much more to learn, to ask. He had been a refuge, a confidant, a teacher. Now, only emptiness remained. She couldn't bring herself to work. The unfinished pieces felt like ghosts in the studio.