The Studio

The studio was quiet and dim. Grace had not turned the lights on in weeks. Her mother’s death had completely derailed her, even though it was not unexpected. Evil cancer had stolen her beautiful, talented mother from her way before her time.

Her mother’s name was Lily. Everything about her suggested light and flowers. She had the magic hands of an expert potter and had instilled the love of the clay in her daughter. The studio was filled with their expert creations, shelves lined with everything from rustic mugs to fine ceramic dishes. Grace loved her time in the studio with her mother. Now she couldn’t bear to unlock the door, much less go inside, and create something, but there was a show coming up. Somehow, she had to make herself functional enough to go in and get to work.

But not today. Grace turned away from the door and walked the short distance back to the house where she knew her husband would be waiting, hoping that she had been able to break out of the solid stone which was her grief. She had been determined to be stoic for her father, for everyone. Convinced that she could tough out the sadness, Grace refused all offers of support.   

Jeremy looked up from his book when the back door opened. He was seated on the plush, blue couch, legs crossed, glasses hanging from the end of his nose.

“Any luck?” His kind eyes were hopeful.

“No. I’m going to take a nap,” Grace responded with a sigh.

“What can I do?” Jeremy stood up to gather Grace in his arms. “How can I help? I just wish I could help you.”

Grace rejected his embrace, just as she had done every single other time since Lily’s death.

“I’m fine. I just need time. Nothing helps.” She choked back a sob. “Go back to your book. Really, I’m fine.”

Dropping his arms, Jeremy watched as Grace turned and walked purposefully down the hall, trying to convey all the ‘I’m fineness’ she had just spoken of. He wrinkled his brow and sat back down not having a clue what to do next.

It had been six weeks since Lily passed, and Grace was doing no better. Her father and sister tried relentlessly to help her begin to move past her grief but were always met with the same response.

“I’m fine. I don’t need help; I just need time.” And time wasn’t helping either.

The next morning, Grace woke up, groggy and exhausted. She’d had a dream about the looming pottery show. Her brain was shouting at her to get up, get moving. Her heart continually shut her down. She missed her partner, her best friend, her creative mentor. Nothing seemed to matter anymore.

But there was the show, a commitment Lily had made before she understood; before they all understood how quickly the cancer would steal her away from them. Grace glanced at Jeremy, still sleeping soundly, and crept out of bed. She pulled on her yoga pants and one of his big t-shirts and slipped out of the bedroom.

The sun was just coming up, peaking through the window above the sink, shining on the clean counter surface. Mornings used to be her favorite time of day. She would make coffee and take the big thermal pot out to the studio with two clean mugs. She was always ready to hand her mother a steaming cup.

It wasn’t the same now. The sun wasn’t as bright, the coffee not as fragrant. Grace went about the morning routine mindlessly, semi-determined to get some work done in the studio today.

She picked up the thermal carafe and carried it to the sink. It felt odd in her hands, slipped from her fingers, and clanked into the sink as she turned on the water. Strange. That had never happened before. The whole process was cumbersome for her today.

Grace managed to get the pot brewing and sat down at the table, staring out the back door at the studio. It was calling to her. The clay was calling to her. She blinked hard to keep the tears at bay. How was she ever going to go on with their business without her mother? Grace laid her hand on her chest, trying to ease the pain in her heart.

Her hand tingled. Both hands were tingling, like they were falling asleep. She clasped them together and rubbed her palms, trying to wake them up. When the coffee pot beeped its final slurp, Grace stood, still flexing her fingers. She reached for a cup, then reached for another cup. The second cup slipped from her numb fingers and crashed to the floor. Her mother’s cup.

Tears burst from Grace’s eyes, a low moan from her throat. She closed her eyes and summoned all her energy to her hands to pick up the pot. She stepped over the broken cup and somehow managed to pick up the other cup and the pot and walked slowly out the door to the studio. She felt the pot getting heavy in her hands and just made it to the door of the studio where her gardening table sat, unused and lonesome, just like her shop. She set the pot down with a thud and pulled the key out of her pocket.

It took some concentration, but she managed to get the key in the lock and roll the tumblers on the old wooden door. When she turned the doorknob, the door swung open, and the light changed in the studio. Grace was overcome with the essence of Lily in the room and choked as she pictured her mother slamming the clay down on the wheel and working her magic.

Grace could hardly breathe. She propped the door open with her ceramic door stop and picked up the coffee pot. It took two hands and two trips to get the coffee and the mug inside the door and an equal effort to get some coffee in the cup.

The sun was higher in the sky and the room, even though she had yet to turn on the lights, had become brighter. There was an energy in the room that she had never noticed before. She knew there were several balls of clay that had been prepped and were ready to be worked. Grace uncovered the first one and plopped it on the wheel. There was already a bucket of water on the workspace in front of her. How did that get there? She was confused. Numbness crept past her hands and into her wrists. She turned the wheel on with her knee.

The sound of the potter’s wheel was strangely comforting to her. She should have been brave enough to come in sooner… She scooped a handful of water onto the clay and pressed the foot to speed up the wheel. The smell of the clay was familiar. She began to feel her brain and her heart have some communication.

When Grace cupped her hands around the whirling clay, panic began to rise in her chest. She could no longer feel it. She could not feel anything. The strange sensation was up to her elbows. She began to shriek.

“What is going on? She stood up, clapped her hands together, felt nothing.

“Oh mom! Why did you have to die? I need you here! With me!” Finally, the dam broke and Grace wept uncontrollably. She sank to the floor, heaving with untouched grief, allowing it to flow out of her like a cascading waterfall.

As she sat, she became aware of the light shifting in the room again. She hung her head, no feeling in her arms, engulfed in the brutal pain of missing her mother when she felt a tingle on her cheek. It felt like a butterfly kiss. Startled, she looked up, unable to wipe the tears from her eyes with her useless arms.

Then she heard her voice, could feel her presence.

“Let it go, my beautiful girl. You’ve got to feel the feelings to move ahead. Mold the clay.”

The voice whispered in her ear. Grace could smell Lily’s lovely, earthy scent surrounding her. She could feel her strong arms around her.

“Accept the help,” her mother’s voice whispered. “Use those hands to reach out to people, not to push them away.”

Suddenly everything started to make sense. Her mother was still teaching her. She took the feeling from her hands so that she would begin to understand what it would be like, to not feel the soft fabric of the shirt Jeremy wore as he pulled her in for a hug. To not be able to feel his hand and he held hers, trying to lead her through her grief. To never feel the wet clay working under her hands, becoming something beautiful and lovely to behold.

Grace took a deep breath and tried to reach for her mother.

“I’m in your heart, always. You must reach for your dad, your sister, Jeremy, your friends.”

“I miss you so much,” Grace moaned as she exhaled.

The light in the room began to shift again and the scent of her mother began to fade. Slowly, the feeling started to creep back into her hands. The heaviness in her heart was less.

A figure stood in the door of the studio and watched as Grace touched her hand to her mouth tenderly and blew a kiss as she whispered, “Thank you, mom. I love you.”

She turned to see Jeremy smiling at her.

“Heard you out here, love. And found the broken cup. Just checking on my girl.” He took a breath. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but I feel like I can smell your mom. You know that musky stuff she loved so much?”

Grace stood up and touched his face with both hands, grateful to be able to feel the soft stubble on his warm skin.

“You’re not crazy. She was here.” Grace nodded as she spoke. “I’m ready now. Ready for help.”

Without questioning her, Jeremy took her in his arms relieved that she was finally allowing herself to grieve. Grace laid her head on his chest and slowly caressed his back, hands tingling now, with love and strength.