Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks 1)

I continue to stare at the waste paper basket until it blurs from my tired eyes and I sigh before making m

y way downstairs to collect my purse, locking the studio behind me as I leave.

I climb into my car, feeling numb, but an old familiar pain creeps its way past the barrier I’ve had up for years and into my heart—a thief stealing all of my happiness—as I drive through the tunnel, back to the side where I belong.

I thought I was finally over this feeling, but it keeps creeping toward me the more I ignore it. I’ve considered confronting the situation head-on and demanding answers, but it wouldn’t change a thing. I’d still be left wondering, “what if.”

I take a few deep breaths as I pull into Mom’s driveway, frowning as I see that there are no lights on in the house. I look down at my watch and gasp; it’s nearly two in the morning, I must’ve lost track of time.

I open the front door quietly and hang up my coat and purse before going into the kitchen for a glass of water. I lift it up to my lips with a shaky hand, relishing in the cool liquid as it slides down my throat.

How can one piece of art have shaken me up so much? It’s like I can’t pull myself out of this swirling pit of emotion that’s trying to suck me under.

No, you need to pull yourself together, Harmony. You can’t let yourself go to that place again.

I need to go to bed and wake up in the morning with a fresh perspective, ready for my Saturday morning session, and put it all behind me.

Who am I kidding? I know it won’t be that simple.

“If you angle the spatula this way, it won’t take away any clay from this part of your sculpture and gives it a much cleaner edge,” I explain to Clayton, watching the frustration on his face ebb away as I show him what to do.

“Okay, Miss J, I’ll try again,” he says in a small, determined voice.

I beam at him. “That’s all I ask, and remember—”

“I know, I know, there’s no such thing as a mistake in art,” he interrupts.

I chuckle. “That’s right.”

I do another lap of the room, watching each child concentrate on their own work of art, head to toe covered in their artwork from the start of the six weeks. To watch them all blossom since that first day has been a blessing. Their lines have gotten cleaner and they’re understanding that in my class, nothing is ever wrong. Each one has their own style and I can’t wait for their parents to see their final masterpieces on gallery night in three weeks.

“Miss J?” a small voice calls out.

I turn around and walk over to little Izzie, the blond-haired, blue-eyed little cutie who has completely stolen my heart with her big imagination and kind nature.

“What can I advise you on, sweetie?” I don’t “help” in my class, I “advise.” I like the kids to work out their own minds with a little know-how from me.

“I can’t do it, it looks stupid.” She pouts, throwing her paintbrush onto the table and folding her arms over her chest in an exaggerated huff.

“Firstly, there’s no such thing as can’t because you absolutely can. Secondly, what is it that you think doesn’t look right?”

She points to a part of her painting. “That bit, it’s… stupid.”

“Hmm.” I look down at the paper, smiling at yet another one of her many unicorn paintings. Each unicorn she paints is always different, this one is purple with blue flowing hair and yellow hooves; she doesn’t like those hooves.

Of course to any normal pair of eyes, her painting is smudged and doesn’t resemble much of a unicorn, but that’s where the imagination comes into it. “I think it’s beautiful, but what about if this unicorn is queen of the unicorns?”

She screws up her face then it relaxes and breaks out into a big smile. “She needs a big crown to match her hooves!”

Distraction is another technique I use a lot, I try and get them to concentrate on anything else so the bit they’re not sure on doesn’t seem so prominent anymore.

“That is such a smart idea, Izzie. Well done,” I praise her.

She bounces in her seat and picks up her paintbrush again with determination.

Toward the end of the session, I walk back over to Clayton and realize that he’s been sculpting what looks like a candle holder.

He peers up at me shyly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It’s not finished yet, I need to paint it when it’s dry.”