Gemotions

The weight of the clay in his hands felt foreign, the texture unfamiliar. Peter had devoted himself to pottery for years, the tactile experience of shaping the clay a calming force in his life. His son, Liam, embraced the craft with an unmatched tenacity. Liam would spend hours at the wheel, his creations far more elegant and technically proficient than Peter's.

Peter would sit on the porch, watching the sun set, the golden light reflecting off the still-wet pottery, the air thick with the smell of wet earth. He felt a constriction in his chest. His studio had become a place he avoided, a monument to a passion that was no longer his own.