wild goose chase
she was as old as the hills
Walking from the diner, in the last of the September sunshine, your little girl stopped on the edge of an empty lot, to pick up a stone. It was not the best stone, she has not yet learned to be discerning, but though not yet two years old she feels the magic of stones.
You tell me about an old boyfriend who had a special stone in the pocket of every coat. They would calm him, soothe him, keep him grounded through treeless Brooklyn crowds. I nod as I watch your girl roll this stone in her delicate fingers. Minutes ago they held french toast and blueberries, but this is a different nourishment.
I remember my best stone. I was sitting next to a sensible, small boy on a beach in Brittany, so long ago that the boy is now a man. My fingers found the perfect weight and shape, half sunken in the sand, it was patterned with forked roads or lightening trees, and when I gently shook it there was a secret rattle. I kept it, in pockets, on shelves, in suitcases and boxes. It came with me as I crossed borders and grew old. When I get home from the diner I will find the stone, unpack it and cup it in my hand. You might not understand this need but your little girl would.
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