Too scared to shape the lump of clay that would be my life, lest it come out the kiln misshapen so it remained a block. I received beautiful bound journals but I couldn’t bring myself to mar the pristine virgin paper with words that might be wrong. Left the paper clean and chaste, my stories forgotten. I am forty now with nothing to show for it. When I die, movers will clear the bookshelf of blank birthday-gift journals. Perhaps some white powder will fleck off my dried out lump of clay and onto their coveralls, which they will wash till I leave no trace.
© 2021 Jewish Young Professional
Written for The Sunday Muse #164