Summer Pieces of Hope

        "You cannot put the frog in your lunch box."

               Aurora glanced up at me from where she crouched on the ground, a croaking amphibian clutched in her hands with bulging eyes that screamed, "save me."

               "But Liz, I want to take it home," she whined.

               "Put. It. Down."

               She grumbled about it, but obeyed, gently placing the slimy creature on the grass before turning back to me. I wrapped an arm around her and tucked her into my side. We both stared at the lake, its shimmering water reflecting the bright blue sky. The color matched Aurora's eyes.

               I squeezed her to me, our skin sticky from the humidity.

I'd only had Aurora in my care for a few weeks. Her mother—my sister—was in ongoing treatment at a rehabilitation center. It was a common practice for her to send Aurora to live with me as she detoxed from whatever her recent affliction was.

My sister was like a volcano. Unstoppable and poisonous. I couldn't stop her from taking the drugs or going to the liquor store, but I could try and give Aurora a decent summer.

               "It's hot," Aurora pouted. "Isn't this supposed to be fun?"

               "Well," I said, "if you took a dip in the lake, you wouldn't be so miserable. It's the hottest day of the year, Ror. Jump in."

               She shook her head. "The last time I went in the water, it didn't end well."

               I had to choke back a laugh. Last summer, I'd taken Aurora for a week so her mom could go on some wellness retreat meant to "purge all sins." It sounded like a cult, or another addiction to me, but I said nothing, too scared that if I pushed, she'd never let me back in. I'd never see Aurora or be able to help if things got worse. The fear of leaving Aurora behind when her mother spiraled was enough reason for me to bite my tongue.

               Water lapped against the small rock path that Aurora and I stood near. I turned her to face me and crouched so we were at eye-level.

               "Hey," I said, "I know the lake makes you feel scared. How about we make a deal?"

               She perked up, blonde, curly hair so much like my own whipping behind her as a breeze came through. Like most seven-year-olds, she was a sucker for a bribe.

               "If you try to at least get to up to your knees in the water, I'll take you to the art studio, and you can help me on my next project."

               Aurora lit up, smile brighter than the sun. Sometimes, she seemed a little broken. She knew her mother wasn't well, but when I took her to the studio, and sat her down at the pottery wheel? She was an entirely different kid. Her mind seemed to quiet as her hands glided over the clay, molding it and shaping it with a talent that I didn't have at her age.

               I understood what art did for her. It did the same thing for me. It mended all the broken, scared, dark parts of my heart. That was why I named the shop "Kintsukuroi." Like the pots repaired with gold, we weren't the same after tragedy or trauma wounded us. We could, however, still find beauty and purpose.

               Aurora took my hand in hers, bringing me out of my thoughts. "Will you come in with me?"

               My face softened. "Of course I will, Ror."

               Hand in hand, we walked to the water's edge. The lake shimmered, reflecting to blue sky.

               Aurora clung to me, as if she feared the lake would take her away. The last time she was at this lake, she was here with me and her mom. I stepped away for only ten minutes to grab our smoothies from the shack near the park entrance. When I came back, her mother had fallen asleep on a bench, and Aurora was splashing and screaming for help in the water.

               "Ready?" I asked, glancing toward Aurora.

               Her grip tightened on my hand, and she took her first step into the lake. The gentle current invited us in, pulling and tugging around our legs like a cool hug. She shivered as the water reached her ankles, then her knees.

               "Just a little further, and then we can go to the studio," I said. "You're doing great."

               She nodded, fixing her eyes on the horizon. We waded in deeper until the water lapped at her thighs. I glanced at her. Her eyes were open wide, fear and courage swirling together, much like the rippling water on our skin.

               "Okay, this is good," I said. "You did it."

               She turned her face toward me, and my heart cracked open at her beaming smile. Any apprehension she had melted away.

               "I did it!" She shouted, "I really did it!"

               A laugh escaped me. "You did. I'm so proud of you. Do you want to swim? Or do you want to go?"

               She took a minute to think about it. "Can we go?"

               I nodded. "A deal's a deal."

               We slowly made our way back to the shore, the scorching sun warming our backs. When we made it back to the grassy land, Aurora chattered about the chance to sit at my pottery wheel.

               Her fear dissipated entirely, replaced by hope and passion.

               After we grabbed ice cream to dissuade the heat, and went back to my apartment to change, we escaped into the studio. It greeted us like an old friend, with warm lights, shelves overflowing with art supplies and pieces for sale. 

               I took Aurora to the back room and hours later, she still worked the clay. Her hands had a precision and care that belied her age. The world outside ceased to exist and all that mattered was the piece under her fingers. It was a reminder that purpose and power thrived, even when faced with sadness and hardship.

               I joined her at the wheel, the familiar sensation of wet, cold clay grounding me. Together, we worked in silence. Our hands shaped not only clay, but our stories of resilience and hope. Aurora's presence was always a balm to my aching heart.

               I hoped that one day, my sister—Aurora's broken, addicted mother—could find the same hope and resilience her daughter did.

               As the sun began to set, casting a golden hue through the studio windows, I looked at the piece made. It was imperfect, yet beautiful, and it held its own weight.

               Aurora looked up at me, eyes shining with pride. "We did it, Liz."

               I pulled her into a hug, not caring that she was covered in clay. "We did, and we always will."

               In that moment, I knew no matter how broken or scared we felt, we could always find purpose. And in doing so, we could heal ourselves, piece by piece.

               We were like the pots in my shop. Not perfect, but beautiful and strong. And that was enough.