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Like Clay in the Hands of the Potter

Various Authors

Molten glass, glowing yellow, is blown and swung, heated and cooled. Quarried stone is split, cut, carved and etched. Soft clay is shaped and molded, spun and fired. It is Yom Kippur. We are raw. To influence or be influenced? To shape or be shaped? Six stories.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

pottery Artistic Creations

Gila Arnold

“Grotesque,” Becca whispered, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. “Disfigured,” she spat out, and shifted her eyes away.

“What kind of talk is that?” chirped Amy, hands working Becca’s leg muscles. “The car accident didn’t make you one bit less beautiful, and since you had the supreme luck of getting the best physical therapist in the state, you’ll be walking again in no time,” she winked.

Becca only shrugged.

Two useless lumps of clay, she thought, as she wheeled herself back to her room. Amy was getting frustrated. “I have patients triple your age with more willpower!” she’d said today, when Becca had once again refused to try to stand.

She paused by the door of her room, listening. She couldn’t stand the circus that congregated every day around her roommate. Yes, the lady had a family, and the family missed their mother. But, really, was that Becca’s fault?

Today, blessedly, the room was quiet. Gitty was lying on her side, eyes closed. Had Becca been able to tiptoe, to glide silently, all would have been well. But the wheelchair's squeak made Gitty’s eyes pop open.

“You’re back,” she grinned, using her shoulders and upper arms to prop herself into a sitting position. “Walking yet?”

“Not quite.” Becca began the arduous process of propelling her body from the wheelchair to the bed, using her arms to pull the rest of the body along.

“Those therapists sure work us hard,” Gitty said cheerily.

"Mmm.” Becca heaved herself onto the mattress.

“Hey, did I tell you what I said to my OT the other day?” the older lady asked. “She said that before I know it, I’ll be moving my fingers again, and I said, ‘Just tell me one thing — will I be able to play piano?’”

 Gitty was gearing up for the punch line, but Becca wasn’t up to giving her the satisfaction. She turned her head away. What a great joke, she thought. Will I be able to play piano — ha, ha. What about the things we really used to be able to do? And, for the hundredth time since the accident, Becca closed her eyes and saw herself on stage, leaping and pirouetting and floating through the air as her legs worked their magic. She was a dancer. That was all she’d ever been, all she’d ever planned on being.

And now she was a dancer with two useless legs.


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