You collect stones, the smooth and small ones, the ones that like to be held. You hold them in your palm and let them warm to you. You fill your hand until it appears cobbled and then you walk to where the sea kisses the shore. With your choosiest eye, you pick the flattest stone and cast it into the green waters. It hops on the surface, grows smaller and slower until it finally sinks like a dream after waking. You do this with each stone until you are empty and cold where they once clung. For a moment, you regret parting with them. Each surface cooed its own story. Each smelled of different seas. Each had its own scars. But then you remember, they’re just stones after all.
Published by Alexa Peters
News Assistant at The Seattle Times View all posts by Alexa Peters