“The clay wants to be alive. It needs you to make it so. See the sculpture inside the block, really feel the clay in your hands and give it life.”

Mrs. Tenenbaum paced the rec room, her scarf flowing whimsically behind her.

“It is good Margarette, but you can do better! Tell your story with the clay!” She’d exclaimed, peering over my shoulder.

I had survived two wars in my country, the death of my husband and outlived my only child. Sculpting was the only joy I had left, and for how much longer I’m not so sure, due to the arthritis. So, I will be damned if this sculpture isn’t perfect.

I set to toiling my weathered hands into the clay, pushing all my aches and pain into it. Carefully molding each corner, blending every connection.

“Much better Margarette! I think you are truly on the cusp of something great here.” She beamed at me.

I felt as if I was sculpting out of a fever. I became obsessed with the idea of bringing the sculpture to life. To assist its birth into this world as I had for so many mothers in all my years as a midwife. It was all I could think about, all I could dream about.

I had gotten permission to stay late on the final evening and worked well into the night, adding finishing touches and carving intricate details. The sun was rising when I had finally finished, and I stood back from my work and wept.

It looked just like her.

Mrs. Tenenbaum would be here soon, but I couldn’t wait. I brought my masterpiece into the kiln room and programmed the firing schedule on the panel. I climbed into the industrial sized kiln and shut the door behind me. Cradling my sculpture, I sang old nursery rhymes as the metal coils kicked on causing the heat to rise. After a time, I heard Mrs. Tenenbaum screaming, slamming her fists on the glass viewing window of the kiln. But I paid her no attention.

I rubbed the face of my daughter in the clay as my skin began to crack and char. I couldn’t miss the birth, I had to see it come to life.