Saturday, May 11, 2013
Flat and smooth, it would be a grand skipping stone, but I'll never throw it. Its curves fit my hand perfectly; it has just enough weight to give it significance.
It is a talisman of sorts, an artifact from an era now past. It has given me strength before and I grasp it now to see if any of the magic remains. Some superstitions, like rust, never sleep.
An accumulated ache grows in my belly as the sun goes down. Colleagues from the Paragraph Factory are going downtown to frolic; instead of joining them I am sitting in silence. The introvert reigns, and for once he has successfully made that rondavis bastard shut his piehole. This is a good thing.
I run a finger over the stone's smooth surface and remember the day I got it. The recipient is alive; his disheartened spirit refuses to die, no matter how helpless he feels. The gift-giver is dead; long may her memory live.