When I was a boy, I used to walk through the woods with my father. One day, on an Autumn hike, my father entrusted me with a rock. It was small and square. A soft, reddish-brown, little stone. He placed the stone in my hand and said, “Hold on to this stone. Don’t lose it. If you can hold on to this, you can hold on to anything.” With that, my father and I set off on a long trip, far away. We walked and walked, all the while I kept the stone in my pocket. I would pat it now and again to check if it remained. On and on we went until we reached our destination. A river cut through the woods, and there it ended in a towering waterfall. We moved slowly and carefully, and then stood on the rocky edge of the cliff, the pair of us in our gear on the right-hand side of the cascading beast. I’d never seen something so beautiful. We saw the expanse of the forest outward below us, and I leaned over, to see how far the falls went. It was easily fifty feet, and the water crashed down onto a pod of large brown rocks, fighting against the heavy water. Suddenly, I realized the rocks looked familiar. This basin appeared to be the origin of the stone my father had given me. Excited at my discovery and thinking my father had intended for me to return it, I brandished the stone. My father was looking away. Before I could get his attention, I slipped. Catching myself with my hands, the stone sailed from my grip. So close now to the edge, I could do nothing but stare at the spray. Within, I caught a momentary glimpse of my reddish-brown stone glinting in the sun, and then I heard its silent scream as it tumbled out of sight. Now my father looked toward me. He hadn’t noticed my mistake. He helped me up and smiled. Then he said, “It’s time to go home.” And so, we did. My father never made mention of the stone again.
Years later, now a man, I wandered alone in those same woods. By now, they had become familiar to me. The damp Spring air hung above and below. Stepping softly and looking down on the forest floor, I beheld a shiny blue pebble within some debris. The wreckage was all gathered at the foot of a tree. The trunk was dead and darkened, seemingly struck by a storm in the night. Yet, there the pebble laid, stark against the brown and the black and the bramble. I joked to myself, “Hold on to this stone. Don’t lose it. If you can hold on to this stone, you can hold on to anything!” Chuckling under my breath, I picked up the pebble and held it, gently. It was a smooth, round, almost glassy, rock. Sky blue, unblemished, except by a slight darkness on one side. I smiled and tossed it in the air, catching it in my left hand. Then, I rolled it around in my palm and smirked as I tossed it again. Once from left to right, then right to left. With every throw I felt a thrill. Higher and higher I threw it. I spun around once, twice, three times. I swung my arm behind my back, twirled, and then caught it in my shirt for the big finale. Then, for good measure, I tossed it between my legs, behind my back, over my head, and into my left hand for the encore. Thoroughly amused, I placed the pebble in my pocket and continued onward, forgetting about it. Eventually, I reached a rabbit snare my father had set up and took down what was caught. It was getting dark, so I found a clearing where my father and I had once sat and repaired the fire pit. I cooked the meat and ate, drinking some tepid water from my canteen. Recalling the pebble, I thought I would sleep beside it. After all, I shouldn’t let it out of my sight. Not this time.
I laid it on a bed of leaves beside my blankets. Together we slept on the hard muddy floor. At dawn, I awoke to a peculiar sound. It didn’t sound like darkness, rather, discoloration. Or something else? The pebble moved and cracked. I feared I was hallucinating. Bad rabbit? No, it was… growing? It was… lurching? It was… hatching. The robin emerged. It had a small gray spot on its wing. I shook my head in shame. I lectured myself; “Leave no stone unturned? Perhaps leave everyone and everything alone else you lay waste to the innocent. Buffoon. Dog. Child! Without my father I can’t tell the difference between a rock and poultry! A pig from an oyster! Not even a snare from a loose end!” On and on, in less savory words. However, the fact remained. The bird was here, now.
I carried her home with me. I fed her what I could, what I had, what I thought she would like. Only fleeting, my heart yearned. Occasionally, she would lay on my heart because it was warm. She grew quickly into a beautiful creature.
She went north that Summer. In the Winter she returned to me, and she sang a sweet duet. Her, with my fears she had chased away.