Love is a story about two people kept apart, as all love stories are, really.
It was all I could do to breathe. Those words felt like drops of water onto a dry stone, spreading over the surface of me, revealing beauty and complexity I had forgotten.
I blame Christmas eve, the walk down to the river, me, turning over large rocks to find the tiny river stones beneath. I brought two home, very small.
Their beauty is lost beneath the dry surface until they are again wet. So, I have a small, round dish. The pebbles sit in it and I dip my fingers in a glass so the water drips from them onto the surface.
I didn’t realize until today that we (or I) go through life so long, so many years…it becomes easy to pass over a stone and not see it, especially river rock that is meant to be wet. We are dry and we become used to it. We forget what it is like to feel wet, forget what it looks like when the rain falls, when intimacy spreads across our surfaces and someone sees the beauty that we have forgotten or never knew existed.
©2006 Sandra Davidson