As I lift the lid the smell permeates my nose.
Almost like dirt.
But not really.
I dig my fingers into the soft cool clay
It feels a little dry.
I run a little cold water over it and work it in my hands
Particles of light brown stick to my hands,
Slowly,
Turning white.
I begin to fashion a flower.
Not of any discernible name,
But clearly,
A flower.
I roll the center out
And slowly roll it back up.
I begin to fashion each individual petal
Carefully shaped
Carefully carefully
Placed
Each delicate petal arranged around the center
My fingers leave tiny fingerprints
Every petal
Every curve
I wish I could make something else.
I wish that I with a soft nudge I could create
Something
Anything
Anything except these stupid flowers
I want to create things
Not flowers.
Things.