May 3, 2013 § 2 Comments

for a time I carried
a small rock around
with me
usually in the watch pocket
of my jeans
someone called it
a worry stone
the only thing I worried
about was
losing the thing
it connected me with a year
it helped to weigh me down
just enough, so that I
wouldn’t be blown over
by troubling storms of adolescence
shaped by water and time
the color of the gift givers eyes
it was with me
then it wasn’t
no matter,
that’s the birth process of memories
it may find its way back one day
as a pendant wrapped in silver wire
centered at the breast
a caregiver, or
a paperweight
keeping a thin volume of memoir tidy
on the desk of a distant grandchild
or perhaps
as a small remembrance
placed on my grave
by the frail hand of someone
who was, for me
the heartbeat of
my story

(c) Fred Whitehead


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