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“I know it feels that way, but she didn’t want to leave you.”
“But she did anyway.” She pushed her finger into one of the walls. “And now, she’s gone, and I have no mom. I’m all alone.”
“You have your dad.”
“I know.”
“He loves you a lot.”
“I know, but he’s not her.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Everybody keeps telling me she’s in heaven.” Tears started to stream down her cheeks as she told me, “I know I should be happy that she’s there and not hurting or whatever, but I’m not. I want her here with me.”
“That’s okay, Reagan. You have every right to feel that way.”
She looked at me for a long moment, then wiped her tears and reached over for more clay. She fixed the roof and the side of the house she’d destroyed, and once she had it just right, she looked back to me and asked, “Can I make her a garden?”
“Absolutely.”
She got to work, and I couldn’t help but smile. For the first time since she’d walked through my door, she wasn’t trying to pretend like nothing was wrong. She wasn’t trying to pretend that she wasn’t hurt by the loss of her mother. Instead, she was learning to cope with all the feelings she had bottled up inside her.
Art had done the same thing for me when I’d lost my parents.
Like Reagan, I was too young to explain the dull ache in my chest that never seemed to go away. I was too angry to accept the fact that I would never see my parents again, so I let my paints do the talking for me.
Painting, charcoal, and even pottery became my outlet for the storm of feeling brewing inside me without ever having to say a word. I started small with flowers and cats, and eventually, I moved to bigger things, like abstracts and horizons.
Each creation was an expression of what I was going through, and little by little, the hurt got a little easier to manage. It was one of the many reasons I’d decided to become an art therapist. I wanted to show other children how to sort through their feelings, and days like today made all my hard work worthwhile.
Once we’d made a small garden for the house, I picked it up and carried it over to the drying-shelf. “It should be ready for glazing by the time you come back.”
“Okay,” Reagan answered, already cleaning her spot.
“I was thinking we might try the wheel next week?”
Her eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Absolutely.” I started back over to her as I said, “You’ve been doing great with the hand molding. I think it’s time to step up our game.”
“Okay. That’d be cool.”
The words had barely left her mouth when her father tapped on the door and stepped inside. “You guys wrapping it up?”
“Yep,” I answered. “We’re all done for the day.”
“We get to do the wheel next week,” Reagan told him excitedly.
“Is that right?”
She nodded. “Ms. Emery thinks I’m ready to try it.”
“That’s awesome.” Emotion filled his eyes as he looked up at me and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
I gave him a nod, and the two of them started for the door. Before she walked out, Reagan turned back to me and waved, “Bye, Ms. Emery.”
“Bye, Reagan. I’ll see you next week.”
