The night before Judson died, both my sister-in-laws orchestrated for a woman to come over to our home and professionally save Jud’s hand and foot impressions in clay.

I received them back this week-dried, painted, fired in the kiln, and prepared to hang on our wall.

I didn’t anticipate being so affected by these pieces of pottery, but there is a deep yearning I feel, each time they catch my eye.  I find myself going over to the handprint, many times throughout the day, to study the lines and crevices that marked Judson’s palm and fingers.  Then I gently touch his print, trying to remember what if felt like to hold his small, warm hands.

The impressions don’t even begin to reflect the imprint he made in his brief lifetime.

(This picture of us holding hands was taken just a couple hours before Jud died).