You walk around, you venture inside a gully where a river once roared and now is just a wimpering stream of shy waters.
But there are rocks, pebbles and stones, like a multitud going nowhere but keeping a baleful eye on you as you go by.
This one is for them...
STONES
Perhaps you are thinking that I am obsessed with rock, pebbles and the like, but I talk and write about them because they are there, in front of me.
Like when I went by the river that has been carving a small canyon on a mountain range rocky guts.
No sandy beaches to be found, or palm trees, just a lot of scattered rolling pebbles with sizes from bowling ball down to that of an engagement ring rock.
Some rocks are just mean. They are waiting for you.
Breaking a toe or two when you go by and aren’t looking.
Some of them are flat, shining, soft at the touch, inviting to throw and try to make them jump seven times on the face of the water.
Or, if you are one of “those”, just once, with a pathetic near inaudible little plop.
I went to the river to hear the chattering of small waves at the beginning of spring, before the real snow-melting make the waters to go bananas and with a deafening roar tumble down like a berserk fanatic riding his favorite roller coast.
Now and then, small pieces of ice will go by like ghostly ships from a Lilliputian armada firing rays of light to the first butterflies.
The snow, that made the boulder seem old and white haired was all but gone, but maliciously there, if you happen to sit down in an apparently “dry” spot.
The seat of your pants will send a very cold telegram to your brain saying not to relay in the information quality of your eyes.
The sun was caressing my face with a welcoming warm as I walked barefooted up the stream, making sure no one of the mischievous stones around had a go at one of my toes…when I saw a she-stone.
How I know it was a she?
It was raised, long and slender, a pale gray gown with golden and light brown stripes down to the river’s water where, on its coast, she was regally standing.
Still approaching her, in the corner of my eyes I caught a group of fat stones on the other side of the creek making fun of the slender stone, a delicate petrified Desdemona.
Apparently she didn’t mind, but I thought I saw a running drop, which maybe wasn’t a tear, it couldn’t be. Could it?.
All around were only small stones surrounding her like many small girls besiege a pop star or a beautiful princess.
But, out of the river’s reach, by a shrubbery full of thorns was a dark boulder, powerful, an Othello keeping a baleful eye on the funny bunch trying to embarrass his Desdemona.
Nothing could make my morning walk happier than having the opportunity of knowing that soon, Othello’s boulder would teach a lesson to the cackling bunch of fat witches that had no other better thing to do that to make fun of something pretty.
I am not a powerful man, but with sweet, determination, many grunts and leverage of a long thick log I was able to move the dark boulder towards the shallow waters helped by the slight downslide, over the opposite side, scattering the mean fat ladies and a few of her fans until there he was, beside her, like a sundown shadow in the sky keeping the moon sparkling bright.
Looking around to see if someone was looking, for a moment I felt silly.
I kept going up the stream for a while until I was forced to look back at the scene of my doing.
She looked relaxed and him seemed more squared, more forceful, I could be wrong but it looked like he was kind of proud.
The bunch at the other side were all red, by shame, fear or by some freak lighting from the late afternoon sun.
I kept going making sure none of those delinquent stones had a go on one of my toes.
Wow, a moving and touching write dear friend, reminds me of the old saying, "if these walls could talk" Hmmm, if those stones could talk, what would they say? Inspiring write indeed! A bit sad!
Blessings,
Joyce B.
I found your story quite captivating, Georg. And I think you made those two stones very happy. We should all spread a little happiness around every chance we get.
Reviewed by ~ Holly Harbridge
7/12/2007
My Dear and good friend Georg, thank you for this story and for sharing its meaning. You are a blesssing to me! Love Holly
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STONES
