There is the making, the giving, the taking.  There is the coolness and heat in 
the swirl of movement.  There is the scent of my mother and holding her hand, 
my hand, your hand, the hand reaching to touch and press into her heart.  There 
is the coil and shaping something from nothing.  There is the waiting, the 
waiting, the waiting.  There is the joy in the watching and waiting.   
 
 
 
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