Two Years Ago. On the river’s edge. The mighty Hudson River. Broad, turbulent, capable of producing large quantities of smooth, flat, stones.
From so many I choose one. Today it’s in my pocket. I occasionally touch it, pull it out, feel its smoothness. I have my camera ready, hanging from my neck, excited as I anticipate my descent to reach my favorite rock by my favorite stream.
“And now 20 years later, how do I reach beneath the skin to write, not about the stones, but the body that warmed them, the heat itself?” -Eli Clare
My hands are cold. It is a chilly fall morning. The closer I get to the water, the more I hear the sound of the soothing, smoothing waters.
I don’t see it and suddenly feel disappointed… but it is still there, my rock, my special place to rest, it’s just hiding beneath fall leaves. I haven’t been here for a while. I sit.
Stones, all sizes. Rough, not smooth. The mist rises downstream.
One last look at my smooth flat stone, carried all the way from the Hudson River.
As I throw it into the stream it skips happily, one, two, three times, before finding its new home.