Gemotions

Eliza, a sculptor, was walking along the beach when she saw it: a woman’s ankle, adorned with a tiny replica of her favorite clay bird. The bird she sculpted, that was meant for a local art exhibit. She had spent a lot of time on it.

She stopped dead. The salt-laced air, usually refreshing, felt suffocating. She watched the woman walk away, the bird a barely visible detail, a part of her now.

She felt a hollowness in her chest, a disconnect she struggled to understand. Every sculpture from then on would now be considered, not just art, but something potentially, permanently, a copy. Her hands felt clumsy, useless.