A Little Dent in the Clay

Every afternoon, Asha sat at the little desk in her bedroom and drew with pencils. She was six, a young elephant with a careful trunk and a box of pencils arranged from shortest to longest. She liked drawing houses with wide doors. If a door came out crooked, she could rub it away. The paper gave her another chance.

One afternoon, Mum put a lump of clay on a round blue mat beside the pencil box. Asha had asked what it was when Mum brought it home. Now she moved her drawing away from it.

“You could make a little creature, if you fancy it,” Mum said. “I'll be here mending your pillowcase.”

Asha tucked her trunk against her chest. “No, thank you. What if its legs are wrong? A pencil mark can be rubbed out. A clay creature will have to stay wrong forever.”

Her tummy tightened when she pictured it: a creature with one tall leg and three tiny ones, staring at her from the shelf. She felt anxious, and a little cross with the clay. I know how to draw, she thought. I don't want to make something I can't fix.

“How do you know whether something new will be all right before you do it?” she asked.