The Potter, thy third post

I was angry at her for getting cancer, and mad at God for letting such a wonderful person get so sick, and mad at myself for being mad at my best friend and God.
Kerry never acted scared of dying. If she was, she sure kept it a secret from me.
“How were the doctors?” I hated saying rehab. Doctor meant any old, minor thing. Rehab didn’t.
She shrugged, her rich, brown hair lifted with her shoulders. Her colored contacts made her eyes almost purple. Even sick, she was beautiful. I, with my wavy, dark brown hair and green eyes felt ugly compared to Kerry.
“It was good, and I learned how to throw a pot.”
“Aren’t you already good at, like, throwing your cell phone at me? Why do need to throw something that might actually hurt?”
Kerry laughed harder. “No, Elise. I learned how to make pots. Throwing is just what it’s called.”
“Oh, phew,” I said, wiped my forehead with my hand dramatically.
“Anyway”, Kerry continued, “I brought some clay home for you, so you could try it.”
“Really? Well, cool! Let’s go!” I said. I wanted to distract myself.
She slowly stood, and winced, when she was fully upright. I took her hand gently, and we walked through her enormous house to the studio where there sat a wad of gray stuff that was clay.
I sat down, and felt it between my fingers. The touch soothed me instantly. I was surprised. I had been so aggravated for so long I forgot what it felt like to be calm. It was cold and soft, easy to shape. Instinctively, I started to form a round base. By the end of an hour I had created a wobbly, small pot. I was happy; it was one thing that helped me with my anger and fear of Kerry dying. While I potted, Kerry sat next to me, her breaths soft and even.