The wet clay was cold in the bin. I carried a sizable chunk in my palm to my seat in the musty art room. It smelled like drying paint, and morning rain. A breeze ruffled my hair. The windows must be open.

I pulled off a sticky lump and rolled it on the table, lengthening it into a long cylinder. I loved how the smooth string felt, like a fat cooked pasta, only drier and heavier. I curled the piece into a coil. I repeated this three more times, stacking the coils in slightly wider rings. I pinched and smoothed the rings together to form a wall.

I loved how my hands could work both inside and outside of my circular wall. It was not like the walls we put up to separate ourselves from each other. My creation was not a circular prison for its future contents. To prove this, I pinched a pour spout, smoothing it outward from the top. I didn’t make a bottom.

This mold would not hold water, only love. It was made with my love and it will pour out love, as well as hold love for a day when I would feel unloved.