CLAY The women in your family made goddesses. They would take the clay and mould it between gentle fingers until the stubbornness gave way. The body came first, shaped by tender touch; your grandmother always prayed while she worked. A wise old face, mapped by lines, lips moving in prayer. Maybe that’s where you get it from. The hymn placed at the nape of your neck. The temple that lives in your eyes. The sacred that leads your voice. Your grandmother always said, ‘From your lips to God’s ears.’ She believed He was always listening, which is why when she walked into a room she brought a gentle
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