Her fingers could not handle the finer points of the clay, and so the face
warped into a caricature with oblique white ovals for eyes and improbably
round lips. There wasn’t much to the skull or the ears, and hardly a trace
of the jawline that marked her own silhouette. She was simple and doughy,
the roughest of creatures, but such is the beginning that marks any beginning:
vague outlines, hopeful guesses at proportion, an innocence of form and shape.
The hard work will come soon enough, of course, the ruthless attempts at getting
it right and the self-flagellation that ensues when failure hits, the way we chew and scrape
at our own tender insides. So she will do her best love her now, this uneven, funny being,
and hold her for exactly what she is: blameless and forgiving.