“Be done, Mommy,” my youngest son says, as he lies across the doorway of my studio, blonde curls pressed against a baby quilt tattered with loving.

I glance at the clock. “Just a few more minutes, then we’ll go fix dinner.”

“Now Mommy, wanna go now.” He rolls onto his back and drums his heels against the door jamb.

Picking up a lump of clay, I roll a thick cylinder, mucky diapers, juice stains on the couch. Pinch off some clay here, add a bit there, sticky doorknobs, bathtub rings. Smooth rough spots and round edges, crayon scribbles on the wall. Finally, a form emerges—mother and child. No way to tell where one begins and the other ends.

night fall
a moon snail
devours a clam

Bio: Kathryn J. Stevens