I was driving somewhere,
past the part of Massachusetts
where maps just get tired and give up -
Otis, maybe,
or a town pretending to be Otis
because it liked the sound of the name.
You know the kind of place:
cellar holes growing weeds for modesty,
brooks reduced to light jogging
through ash and clay.
That’s when I saw it -
not a deer, not a farm stand,
but a stone
sitting in the river
as if it had been there since rivers began,
the kind of presence
that makes even the water
change its route.
It looked like something
that wouldn’t budge for lightning or laws,
and in that way,
it reminded me a little of myself -
quiet, but not in the mood to move.
It didn’t glance my way,
didn’t whisper my name,
but its complete indifference
made me want to take it home.
So we did.
It was heavier than I expected.
I staggered.
The car sighed under its new passenger,
the tires muttering about my decisions.
Back home,
I lifted it from the trunk -
arms tight around it,
knees wobbling -
and carried it across the sidewalk.
It felt less like I was relocating a rock
and more like I was escorting
something that already knew exactly
where it belonged.
In the side yard,
just this side of the fence,
I let go.
It landed with a low, rounded thud,
the kind you feel in your ribs.
A puff of dry earth rose up,
smelling faintly of minerals and old rain.
Somewhere above,
a leaf rattled loose and fell,
as if the tree had been waiting for the cue.
The Steady One, chuckled and lightly sneered,
as I declared, “I'm not picking that up again.”
That was the moment -
though I didn’t know it -
when the yard at Southern and Kenosha
stopped being just a yard.
The grass seemed to stand straighter,
the air leaned in,
and I felt as though I’d unlocked
something older than the house itself.
Spring came with whispers of green,
and we planted lilac bushes
that swayed shyly toward the stone’s still frame,
blueberries gathering sun beside them,
and all manner of flowers
unfurling like quiet promises -
the earth learning
how to hold something so immovable,
while coaxing life to bloom around it.
Summer’s heat pooled in the stone’s shallow hollows,
mirroring the slow warmth
that settled in my own chest
when I stood nearby,
watching the yard grow into itself,
flowers blazing in bursts of color,
their scents drifting like whispered secrets.
Come fall,
the leaves made a brittle carpet,
and the stone gathered their dry edges
like a quiet guest gathering stories,
patient and unhurried -
waiting, as always,
without asking why.
Years have passed, and under the shade of lilacs,
moss claimed the stone’s rough shoulders,
softening edges worn by time and silence.
Like me, it bears the quiet signs of age -
steadfast, stubborn,
a patient witness to seasons folded
into years,
still holding its place
as I’ve come to hold mine.
It hasn’t moved since that day.
Not an inch.
It occupies its spot like a king
who knows the crown will never be taken,
watching over its small territory,
daring the wind to try.
Now it sits there,
catching light in the morning,
holding rain in its shallow hollows,
and every so often
I catch myself wondering
if I brought it home
or if it chose this place
and simply used me to get here -
two stubborn things
deciding, without ceremony,
that this corner was enough.
GBS
December 2024
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