A block of clay stared at Sue Ellen from across her studio. She sat on the edge of her bed, chewed on the edge of a fingernail, and had the same solid think she’s been having for years. The room is silent, but her mind is a jumbled poem of acid jazz: each thought is replaced by another within moments, never giving her a chance to savor one tune. A solid wall of the collective incomplete.
She stares up at the ceiling, bouncing two fingers on her neck, tapping along with her thoughts. She brings her head down, shuts her eyelids, and holds her hands like a steeple against the middle of her forehead. Bits of dry clay are stuck to her cuticles. Deep breath in. A heavy long sigh brings her thoughts to sudden silence. She looks at the clay with a sideways glance. Piece after piece has been shamefully pressed back into a formless mound by the soft palm of her hand.
The clay sits, waiting to be made into tiny abstract sculptures of sincerity and humility and gratitude and fondness, sculptures engraved with expressions of remorse and overwhelming emotion. She will never finish them. She will never send them. She picks up a note resting on top of a box filled with bubble wrap. She reads her words for the hundredth and last time before tearing the paper in two.
I would line every street with these sculptures. Not requesting forgiveness and not with expectation of a deserved reply, but only to demonstrate with accurate volume and emotion to you that I am sorry and I think of you often.