It was a sculpture, made out of clay, painted in warm earth tones of brown, gold and ochre. A woman with flowing tresses, dressed in Grecian drapery that clung to her curvaceous form, stood on a small base, one leg stretched behind her, arms outspread. A pair of delicately feathered wings extended from her shoulders. Her face, with its wide open eyes, flared nostrils, and large, sensual lips, slightly parted, conveyed an expression of fear combined with high excitement. As Cara turned the sculpture in her hands, inspecting it more closely, she noticed that the tips of the wings looked as though they had melted in the heat of the kiln. It took a moment for her to recognize that of course, clay didn’t melt that way. Ben - for it was obviously Ben’s work - had fashioned the wings to appear as though they were melting under a hot fire. A hot sun. She turned the statue over and read out loud the words he had engraved on the base: “Falling Angel.” Suddenly, Cara grasped the symbolism.
