At the gentle push of her foot, the wheel in front of her spun with a slight whir. She felt the cool clay beneath her hands, felt it mold itself to the contours of her wrinkled fingertips. The wheel slowed to a halt; she pushed again with her foot, spurring it to action again. It was a simple association, but she felt as though she was learning it for the first time. The clay was familiar in her hands, but she couldn’t remember why.
Again she pushed, the wheel starting its endless circle. She pressed a single finger into the side of the clay and watched as a divot formed in the side of the mound. In an impulse she placed two fingers in the center of the blob and pushed with her foot, faster and faster and watched the clay mold, forming a hole in the center. With a rush of excitement at her achievement, she pushed again, this time dragging her pinky finger along the soft base of the mold. The clay took shape in front of her, and though she didn’t know what she was creating, the rush of pride in making something spurred her on.
Push. Whir. Push. Whir. Push Whir.
He watched her silently. He saw the joy spread across her face, the gray wisps of hair dancing on her face. He smiled to himself, careful not to interrupt her concentration. She was losing more and more lately. It was good to see her have a few moments of innocent clarity in a time of such darkness and confusion. His eyes misted with the thought of the day by day progression deeper into the recesses of her increasingly blank mind. When he thought of it, he was overcome with the unceasing feeling of the unfairness of it all. But those thoughts were not for today.
Today was one of her good days. He would be strong for her today.
The wheel stopped its spinning, leaving her wrinkled hands resting gently on the unmoving clay. It had taken form underneath her hands; she had created something. She was sure there was a word for it; it was lost in her mind. Try as she might, she couldn’t find the words for any of it. A feeling of complete helplessness overwhelmed her, though she knew not from where it came.
In a moment of impassioned rage she slammed her fist down on part of the clay, smashing the side of her creation into the wheel. As it had been created, so now it was destroyed. She felt the tears sting her eyes, though she did not know why.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped slightly. She looked up into the man’s gentle, tired face. A feeling of recognition of his being coursed through her. She felt her cheeks warm, delight dancing in her heart, but again, she couldn’t explain the reason behind the emotions raging through her veins. She knew him from somewhere, long ago.
In a flash it came to her. She had known this man for a very long time. They had shared so much.
He was her husband. Jim, that was his name. She smiled at the faint memories traveling through her broken mind. He returned her smile lightly, as if discerning that she had recognized him.
Her smile grew as she said “Hi”
“Hey” he replied gently, “What did you make today?” he asked, gesturing to the mound of clay on the wheel in front of her.
She glanced down again, her features darkening.
“I don’t know” she replied heavily.
“Well I like it,” he replied, keeping the lightness in his voice, “especially this part,” he said pointing at the crushed portion of the mound in the shape of her fist.
She laughed lightly, picking up on his sarcasm. She loved him for that. In her moments of clarity, she appreciated his ability to keep her laughing, as he always had.
His hand stroked her back absently as he sat down next to her, his eyes never leaving her face.
Her smile faltered as the reality came crashing down on her, her eyes filling suddenly with tears.
“Hey,” he said his hand grabbing her own clay-stained one, “no time for tears, you’ve got more pots to make.”
She glanced down at the semi-demolished mound of clay in front of her. Pots. That’s what they were. Pots. Such a simple word.
She nodded, meeting his gaze again, her face filling with a look of determination. She would try again. For him.
She pushed her foot down again, making the wheel whir to life. He placed his hand on the mound, guiding her hands to reshape the clay. They worked together in tandem for a while, the whirring of the wheel the only sound accompanying their work. Though no words were spoken, such depth of feeling was ever-present in the simple act.
The door opened slowly, prompting both to look up.
“Hi Mom, Dad,” their daughter, Beth opened the door a little wider, revealing the young girl standing at her mother’s side.
“Gramma! Grampa!” squealed the little girl rushing toward them.
“Molly!” her mother yelped, grabbing at the girl’s arm, but she had already escaped her mother’s reach and had plowed headlong into Jim’s arms.
He laughed as he adjusted to her weight his arms. Her blonde out-of-control curls tickled his face as he lifted her small form into his lap.
Pam watched, searching her mind for the right names. She knew them, the woman in the doorway was her daughter, the little girl’s name was apparently Molly. Molly had called her “Gramma!” so she assumed the girl was her granddaughter, but she couldn’t remember with any certainty.
She forced a smile at the woman in the doorway. The woman faltered slightly, recognizing that her mother seemed a little confused. She glanced furtively at Jim who just nodded silently as Molly squirmed in his arms.
“Hi Mom, how are you feeling today?” the woman asked tentatively.
“Okay,” Pam said, pausing slightly, “I’m making a…” the word left her suddenly. She glanced at Jim for help.
“Pot.” He said simply, his look radiating supportive confidence.
“Gramma, can I try?” Molly said, clearly oblivious to the exchange of uncomfortable looks and pauses.
Pam glanced at Jim again, as if needing to affirm that this was indeed okay, he simply nodded his assent.
Molly climbed onto Pam’s lap and made herself comfortable. Pam felt an overwhelming sense of love wash over her. She remembered, in a sense, everything about her granddaughter through her very presence. She recalled everything when she heard the little girl squeal with laughter as Pam pushed the wheel into motion. It all made sense when the girl stuck her fingers in the clay, making art of her own.
He watched Pam carefully as Molly played with the clay. She seemed comfortable, but he knew how quickly that could change. Today was a good day though, and he relaxed as Pam smiled and giggled along with Molly as the wheel squeaked and whirred in the background.
“How is she?” Beth asked in a low voice.
“Good today” Jim responded, standing and crossing to her, shoving his hands into his pockets; an old habit that he had never quite outgrown.
“She seems happy.” Beth said, looking wistfully at her daughter and mother together at the potting wheel.
“She has moments where it all seems to come together, and others where nothing seems to make sense,” Jim continued, staring at the pair. “The doctor says it’s progressing pretty quickly now. She probably doesn’t have much…” he halted, unable to finish that statement.
His daughter sniffed quietly. He looked down at her to find her eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry,” she said, laughing mirthlessly, “I just...I can’t…it’s just not...” Beth trailed off, as if unable to find the words to express her pain.
Jim merely nodded. They were suffering together. All of them. He wasn’t ready to let his Pam go. And yet, they had had a lifetime; a seemingly transient, but wonderful one. Now it was slowly slipping away from them. Everyday a little more disappeared. Yet the woman he saw today seemed to really understand. Today, she really remembered.
Molly giggled again, her hands full of clay. Beth let out a small laugh at the pair of them. Jim couldn’t help but smile as he tried to burn this memory into his mind. He needed a little something to cling to on the really hard days.
Beth and Molly stayed for over an hour, Molly and Pam enjoying molding the clay together, Jim and Beth sitting silently, watching the pair create their own work of art together. Jim was content to revel in the blissful innocence his granddaughter had brought into the room. She brought joy, a joy he so much needed in these dark days. With every giggle and smile, he felt a little lighter. He watched his wife carefully show Molly how to mold the clay as she spun the wheel. She looked up to meet his gaze and the pure joy he saw there made his heart light, hopeful. Today she understood.
After a while, Jim could tell she was getting tired. Her face displayed more confusion. He nodded to Beth, and she understood.
“Molly, honey, we need to go now okay?” she said, giving her daughter a telling look, which the girl clearly understood.
“Okay,” she replied sadly.
Molly hopped off Pam’s lap, wiping her little clay-stained hands on her shirt as she ran to Jim again, throwing her arms around his neck. He picked her up in his arms as he stood and spun her around a few times, smiling at the light, carefree squeals his action produced. Her innocence was beauty to him.
As he set her down, he looked to Pam, who had a small sad smile on her face. It was as if she knew that her the moment was already fading, yet she was trying so hard to place this memory away in a special store, untouched by disease. He felt the emotion bubbling up in him at the sight of her sitting there, so small, so sadly hopeful, so Pam.
Molly dashed back to her grandmother, wide grin on her face, laughter dancing in her eyes. Gently, ever so gently, she hugged her grandmother tight, whispering her love in her ear. Pam’s smile grew as she returned her love to the little girl. Molly drew back and placed her little hand, still covered in clay, over her grandmother’s larger, wrinkled one.
There was such a deep understanding in her small gesture of comfort. For one so young, she exhibited so much empathy, so much love. Her gentle kindness brought tears to Jim’s eyes.
Pam smiled sadly at her granddaughter. She knew the little girl before her understood more about her than she even knew of herself. The innocent squeeze of the small hand on her own wrinkled one conveyed such comfort. Pam knew she wouldn’t remember this long. This moment, with all the others, would be lost to the ever impending darkness permeating her mind.
She thought briefly about how much she wished to see the girl in front of her grow to be a beautiful young woman. How much she wanted to teach her all the things grandmothers were supposed to teach their grandchildren. Yet she knew that was not her future. She grasped at the fading clarity in her mind, determined to express to her granddaughter how much she loved her. Words were fading, yet something rang true. Something someone had told her long ago. Something that had changed her own life that she hoped would provide guidance to her granddaughter in the dark times of life, as it had done for her.
She pulled Molly to her again, whispering in her ear, “Take a chance on something, sometime, Molly.”
The girl pulled back, a confused expression on her face. Pam faltered slightly, but looked earnestly, honestly into her granddaughter’s face. The girl’s face changed, as if she understood the intensity in her grandmother’s eyes. She smiled slightly, nodding.
Beth approached her mother, hugging her slightly, kissing the top of her grayed head. “Bye mom” she said, feigning lightness, but her voice giving away the sadness beneath.
As Molly and Beth left, Molly called out “Bye Gramma!”
Pam smiled and waved slightly. As they walked from the room, she felt the clouds in her mind settle in around her. The memories of the past few moments were hazy, as if obscured by a darkening mist. She tried desperately to grasp at something, anything to keep those moments alive.
She looked down at the pottery wheel before her, confusion darkening her features.
Jim approached her, seeing her confusion. Gently, ever so quietly he sat down next to her, extending his hand to cover her own. He eyes darted up, as if startled to feel his touch. The confusion covered her features completely, the early clarity and recognition completely disintegrating into mist and shadow.
Jim merely smiled, offering every silent comfort he could muster. Pam’s apprehension lessened, and she seemed to relax into him. He carefully placed her hand back on the mound of clay before her.
“Here,” he said gently, “push with your foot, like this.” With the pressure of his foot on the pedal, the wheel stirred to life again, spinning the uneven mass of clay around and around. After a moment of stillness, she came to life again, molding the clay in her hands. She pushed the pedal with her own foot, delighted at the increasing speed of the wheel.
Jim watched her closely, searching for another moment of clarity, another moment of recognition. He lived for those moments now. They were his reason for living. The hope of seeing the real Pam, his Pam again kept him going, even in the worst of moments. He moved his hand to her shoulders, drawing small soft circles on the contours of her back. He would offer her comfort and love to the last.
At the gentle push of her foot, the wheel in front of her spun with a slight whir. She felt the cool clay beneath her hands, felt it mold itself to the contours of her wrinkled fingertips. The wheel slowed to a halt; she pushed again with her foot, spurring it to action again. It was a simple association, but she felt as though she was learning it for the first time. The clay was familiar in her hands, but she couldn’t remember why.
Story Notes:
This is not my usual angsty/fluffy stuff. In fact, it's quite heavy on the angst. But it was going through my head, demanding to be written.
Also, I don't claim to know everything there is to know about memory loss, but this is just what I think it might be like.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
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Also, I don't claim to know everything there is to know about memory loss, but this is just what I think it might be like.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
~~~~~~
Chapter End Notes:
Sorry this was so depressing...I promise to try to be more upbeat next time.
Reviews are wonderful moments of comfort and love.
Reviews are wonderful moments of comfort and love.
PBeesly Sweater is the author of 10 other stories.
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