Molded Clay

If she could stuff them in her pockets and leave them there she would.

Like hard candy wrapped in little pieces of paper. You can savor

them, make them last. Roll them around on your tongue or set them

in your mouth overnight like a cough drop, turn them into cherry

menthol dreams. Something you can clamp down on, not let it

go too fast. She was forever storing up treasures,

boxing them on attic shelves.

But they are not like that, children. Things you can package up and keep.

They are reckless with their time, growing without permission and letting

their youth run out, eating it right out of the jar like peanut butter.

They frolic around seeping their souls like bleeding chalk into dangerous

cracks in the street. Jumping over years like rope, counting it off

in sing song giggles. She had written the book of their childhood with

agony and care, praying always for just a little more time to edit.

She looked out at the street where they had spent it, without even knowing

what it was. She would keep it safe, remembering and gifting it to them

bit by bit in a locket around their neck or a recipe handed down.

Holding it, in little gasps of silent longing or wakeful nights of swift

biting terror mingled with hope. She ran her fingers over the hardened

clay, the outline of little hands that had once been warm and soft in hers

and placed them in a cardboard box. She forced herself to close the lid

and neatly tucked all those pieces of herself inside, put it in a corner

and pretended she was whole enough, to pick herself up and walk

back down the stairs again.

Reviews

[Donald Meikle]

Definitively perfect read. Memories and observations molding us in thrall at the speed of it all

[Kristina Moulaison]

Thanks for this!