Happy Place(96)

I lose myself in the rhythm of it.

Coning it up. Coning down.

I won’t have time to glaze it before I leave Knott’s Harbor, won’t have room to take it home in my luggage once it’s fired. I don’t think about any of that.

Throwing makes my mind feel like the sea on a clear day, all my thoughts pleasantly diffused beneath light, rolling along over the back of an ever-moving swell.

My meditation app often tells me to picture my thoughts and feelings as clouds, myself as the mountain they’re drifting past.

At the wheel, I never have to try. I become a body, a sequence of organs and veins and muscles working in concert.

I ease off the pedal, opening the clay. My elbows lock against my sides, thumbs dipping into the center, and as the clay whips past, a mouth widens within it. My thumbs curve under, thinning the walls beneath the lip.

The earthy smell is everywhere. Sweat pricks the nape of my neck. I’m dimly aware of an ache in my upper spine, but it’s only an observation, a fact requiring no action. There is no need to fix it, to change it.

Just another cloud drifting past.

The loose shape of a bowl appears within my hands. I take the yellow sponge from the table, pressing it lightly against the bottom of the bowl, smoothing the rings. Sweat beads on my forehead now. The ache in my spine snakes through my shoulders.

I take hold of the bowl’s thick lip and draw it upward, stretching the clay, coaxing it higher. When it’s risen as high as it safely can, I bring my hands back to the base, funneling them, collaring the piece upward.

This is my favorite part: when I’ve worked the clay into a stable cylinder, when the slightest touch can shift and shape it. I love the way that everything can so easily fall apart, and the ecstasy of finding a groove in which I know it won’t, without understanding the physics, the why. The clay becomes an extension of me, like it and I are working together.

It reminds me of something Hank told me a long time ago, about growing up on a ranch, training new horses.

He’d been good at it, apparently, and attributed that to his patience. He could wait out any bad mood. The anger of an animal didn’t make him angry. It helps you understand them better, he told me. You don’t want that anger becoming fear. You want it turning into trust.

And while there were a lot of things he’d hated about working at a ranch, he’d loved the feeling of coming to an agreement with another living thing, of understanding each other’s needs, giving space when it was time for it, and pulling close when it was needed.

Wynnie would’ve been good at it too, he told me. He’s always known how to listen.

At first, I mistake the sting for sweat catching in my lashes. Only when I feel the warm trails cutting down my cheeks do I realize I’m crying.

A different kind of crying from the wide variety of it I’ve done this week.

Not sobs. Not tears quaking out of me. A slow, quiet overflow of feeling.

I give a sniffly laugh but keep my hands where they are, shaping this beautiful, delicate thing for no reason other than my own joy.

When I look up and see him standing in the doorway, my stomach buoys, and my heart says, You.

Like it’s summoned him here just by beating.

I rise from the stool, hands smeared with watery clay. “What are you doing here?”

The right side of his mouth rises. “Came to reenact that scene from Ghost.”

At my apparent lack of comprehension, he says, “I woke up and you were gone.”

I wipe my hands on the apron. “I went to get coffee and then I remembered the surprises Sabrina planned. Seemed like a shame to let them go to waste.”

“I figured,” he says. “I went to mine too.”

I check the clock over the door. I’ve been here a lot longer than I realized. Two hours with the same vase. “How’d you find me?”

His head tilts. “You don’t forget an address like 123 Easy Lane.”

“Because of the missed opportunity,” I say.

His smile faintly spreads. “Should’ve been Easy Street.”

“All these Mainers,” I say, “trying their damnedest not to make their towns too adorable.”

He comes closer, peering at the wheel. “What are you making?”

“Honestly,” I say, “I’ve barely been paying attention.”

“Looks like a vase.”

“You might need glasses,” I say.

His gaze lifts. “Is it hard?”

“I think what’s hard about it,” I say, “is that you need to do less than you realize. And overthinking it and trying too hard to control it messes it up. At least in my experience.”

He gives a half-hearted smile. “Life.”

“Do you want to try?” I ask.

He very nearly rears back. “I wouldn’t want to ruin it.”

“Why not?” I say.

“Because,” he says, “it looks so nice. You’ve worked so hard.”

I snort as I cross toward the apron hooks and choose a pale yellow one for him. “It’s wet clay,” I say, handing the apron over. “It’s not breakable.”

“It looks breakable,” he says.

“I mean, you could knock it over or collapse it, but nothing’s going to shatter. And I’m not going to have time to finish it anyway, so if we put the clay back when we’re done, it’s no big deal.”