Peace, I thought. Peace had eluded me for too long. I shed a few tears and said good-bye, then returned to the house to find Gran telling a story and Ellen giggling.
The year passed swiftly. It sped through the leaves changing colors, the leaves dropping, and Ellen asking question after question. The same was true of the snow that fell in December, and Christmas was merrier than I ever remembered it. Soon February rolled around, and since I didn’t know her exact birthday, we used the one I did know, and so Ellen turned three.
CHAPTER FIVE
On a sunny day during the summer that Ellen was three, she cut her knee on a sharp rock. It was more of a scrape really, but she screamed so loudly that Gran and I nearly had heart failure as we searched her for bites or wounds, perhaps hidden under her clothing and probably scaring her more, before we figured out it was nothing and could be easily fixed with a little soap, ointment, a bandage, and a kiss “to make it all well.”
Gran insisted I scour the yard for obvious things like nails or broken glass that could pose a risk to little feet and hands and knees. Ellen, already recovered, was out and helping. Her help consisted of walking around with a stick, stumbling over roots, and generally being a busy little three-year-old girl.
As I searched the hillside near the cemetery, I heard a stone dislodge and tumble down. I turned and ran immediately to the cemetery wall.
I grabbed Ellen as another loose stone slipped from under her foot. I caught her under her arms, let her stand for a moment on the top of the wall while I secured my arms around her, and hugged her. I wanted her to be careful but not fearful.
She pointed at the smallest grave with its ring of rocks. “Ellen can play?”
I tightened my arms around her. “Not here, sweet girl. This is our family cemetery.” How to explain it? No way that I could think of. “Not for playing.” The headstones went in a row straight across—my parents, Anne Marie and Sean, and their date of death on a homemade headstone with their names scratched in while it was still wet. I’d thought it was odd that their last name wasn’t included but long ago realized that being homemade, probably by Grand, it was no wonder if it wasn’t quite what you’d find in a city cemetery. Next to Anne Marie was the first Ellen, next was Grand, and then the spot where Gran would rest.
“Too tight, Mommy. Ellen get down now.”
She squirmed, and I held her up, kissing her cheek with a blubbery noise to make it fun, then I set her down, letting her get her feet under her before releasing her.
How could I explain loss and burial to a child of this age? The word Daddy was a bit of a minefield anyway. She’d asked for him, simply saying, “Daddy?” a few times early on. But she hadn’t persisted. She hadn’t said it in a while. What could I tell her? Someday, perhaps not too far off, she might begin to ask with persistence.
Mommy hadn’t been a problem. Not since I started answering to it.
Hand in hand, we crossed the bridge over the creek, but as soon as I let her go, she wandered over to the toolshed. The door wasn’t latched, and her little fingers fit into the gap easily, and it swung open.
“Stay out of the shed, Ellen. There’s sharp stuff in there.”
But she leaned inside anyway and came out with a bright-blue pot. The butterfly pot. I had no idea how it had ended up in the shed. I understood why it attracted her. The pain that shot through me at the sudden memory was undeniable but manageable. I made a point of smiling so Ellen wouldn’t misread my expression.
“Bring it over here.” I held it in my hands and turned it over and moved my finger around the outer edges of the wings. Her name, my daughter’s name, was scratched into the side. Ellen.
“Butterfly, Mommy?”
“Yes, sweetheart. A butterfly pot. I made it long ago.” I smiled, saying, “Come with me.”
I held her hand as we stepped over the tree roots and other natural tripping hazards I couldn’t move out of the way. Ellen was at an age where she needed constant watching, and Gran wasn’t up to it, thus I hadn’t been inside the pottery cabin in a long time. It could wait. This Ellen, our sweet Ellen, had been with us for more than a year now and had already grown so much that at this rate, it wouldn’t be long before she would be a full-fledged child and ready for school. I didn’t know what I’d do about it when the time came.
“What is it, Mommy?”
Had she read my expression? No, she was pointing at the pottery cabin.
“That’s where Mama used to make her pretties.”
I opened the door, surprised it moved easily, as if the many yesterdays meant little. Inside it was dusty, and webs hung in the corners and rafters, but it was dry and smelled clean despite the disuse.
The potter’s wheel sat where I’d last used it. I ran a finger in the layer of dirt and dust that had settled over it. Nearby was the table for working the clay, and against the wall was a cabinet where I’d stored supplies. Time hadn’t stood still here. The clay was hard, and the glazes were dried up and cracked.
Other than halfhearted attempts at clay sculpture after our loss, I’d let this all go.
“What’s this, Mama?” Ellen was trying to spin the wheel.
“It’s where I make clay pots.”
“The butterfly pot?”
“Partly there, and then I finished it by hand.”
She set the pot carefully on the wheel, then tried to climb onto the seat via her belly. For a moment, I thought she’d overbalance and fall headfirst. I was ready to grab her, but she made it, pulling her legs around and ending up on her butt.
“It’s dusty.” I lifted her legs and checked around underneath the seat and wheel to make sure no spiders were lurking. “All clear.”
“Show me how?” She looked up, her eyes adding weight to her question.
“I don’t have any good clay. Besides, your hands are small . . .” I let that trail off. “I don’t have any good clay.”
“Show me. Please?”
I came up behind her and sat on the back edge of the seat with her sitting between my legs. She’d grown so much that I was more off than on the seat.
I took her hands in mine. “We can pretend. Will that work?”
She nodded.
How much should I show a curious three-year-old? Likely she’d lose interest quickly, but a turning wheel would have far too much potential for temptation. I said, “Pretend the wheel is spinning.”
“Spinning?”
“Yes.” I cupped her hands in mine and held them over the butterfly pot. “And that this is a lump of clay, gray and like mud.”
“It’s a bowl, Mommy. A pretty blue bowl. A butterfly bowl.”
“True. But before it was a pretty blue bowl, it was a lump of gray mud. Clay. Can you pretend that’s what it looks like now?”
She shook her head no, but she said, “Yes.” Her dark, glossy hair smelled fresh and clean. I kissed the part on the top of her head, and she giggled.
“Listen carefully,” I said. “We hold our hands like this. We don’t touch the wheel because it’s spinning, right? Pretend spinning, I mean.”