The window sills in my kitchen are covered and cluttered with bits and pieces of stone. They are I suppose, sort of trophy sills, with rocks from lands far off and lands within driving distance from this spot where I dwell.
There are rocks of all sorts and sizes, some riddled with bits of crystalized glitter or bits of animals dead long, long ago. Rocks of hues both colourful and bright, and some deep and heavy as depression and despair. But all these rocks were gathered for me by friends and/or loved ones from places I will never, ever go in this lifetime.
Sometimes friends remember to pick me up one here or there, and sometimes they forget. It matters not, for they are after all, only rocks. Or rather to those I ask, they are only rocks and thus so, easily forgotten. But to me, they are much more than the composite of minerals & such, they are tiny shards of a bigger picture; like pieces of a puzzle so grand that if one had enough of them & put them all together just so, you’d actually have a world.
They are more than just bits of rock, they are small bits of history, barely a sentence of a time long before the human hand which you hold it with existed and that rock will still be the same rock, millions of years after you are long dead.
They are reminders to me that this world will be here after I am gone and I realise that someone in the future will just toss them all out the door, scattering my collection of rocky bits into their flower bed or driveway, because to them, they will be ‘only rocks’.
However, once they were on my kitchen’s sills, creating an uneven edge of a frame thru which I view this world while I cook & bake * create * clean up from my culinary escapades. I look at them every day, sometimes holding, or touching them and in doing so, I am able to touch by proxy, the places from whence they came. To me, they are a cornerstone, a foundation, a small piece of a mountain I will never climb, or a shore I will never walk upon or a ridge I will never sit upon to watch a foreign sunset or a riverbed in which I shall never wade.
I have rocks from so many places, but not as many as I’d love to have..
I touch the one from DisneyFreak & if close my eyes I can almost smell that sharp, cold Alaskan air & I wonder if that rock ever gets too hot on my sill. Does it miss being in the cold tundra of the north?
I’ve one from Sweden from Zara when she went to Europe on her HS Senior trip, and one from England from Zack on his same trip. I’ve one from Canada from Mariah when she went on her band trip in July and one from DC from Ethan from two years ago. I’ve one from my boss from Lake Michigan and one from Tennessee when I picked it up in a river there while on my honeymoon when I married my now X in 1990.
I actually have a few -fist size is best- from other states, from other friends. There’s one from Kistmyst who actually BOUGHT me a rock and a gorgeous sandstone it is but I would have been happy with one she picked up along her travels, she needn’t have purchased one just for me, and Iv’e one from my Aunt Betty she brought me from Brazil, and one from BBC from California and one from Sara from Hawaii.
I’ve quite a lot of lovely rocks from Zack including a few crystals and a pretty blue lapis, for he is majoring Geology but it’s the rocks from far away that mean so much than the ones I can see and touch and admire in my backyard; even tho my house is riddled with rocks for all my kids are rockhounds and they all collect them just as I do.
I wonder sometimes if the rocks miss being with others of their kind and do they get lonely sitting there on my sill or is the hustle/bustle of my household enough to keep them entertained as they dream their solidified and broken dreams.
I wonder if they sit and listen to the goings on about them, and ponder on we humans sillyness or do they just sleep in another dimension of reality that we cannot see/touch/taste/hear or smell. Do they mind being in my home or perhaps they simply endure sitting about on my sill with broken strangers from other lands and wait for enough time to pass to where they can again be tossed outside to the elements and freedom.
I had asked a dear friend of mine recently to pick up a rock for me in Colorado but, he forgot. I’m not upset, for it really is ok, really-
I am however, just a bit disappointed for I’d edged & stacked & moved my other rocks about to clear a spot for it. But, I shall simply move them all back again until another time when someone, some other day will go to Colorado again, or another state or far away land (and to me, Colorado IS far away) & perhaps they instead will pick me up one from that great mountain in the west. I will smile and thank them and clutch my rocky treasure in my hands and feel the greatness of the mountain from which it broke free and I shall scootch about the other rocks and add it to my shelf of tidbits from other places.
Places close enough for me to dream about, but alas, places that I will never go.
I realise that to others, they are ‘just rocks’ but to me they are keepsakes handed to me by loved ones whom if only for a moment, remembered to remember me.
But in the end they are right, I mean, they really ARE just rocks, aren’t they?
He forgot, and it matters not b/c I won’t let matter.
There are more rocks in the world to be had, Colorado isn’t going anywhere and friends are much harder to come by anyhow.