My Rock

When I first realized the rock was mine, it seemed so darn big. And rough. And heavy.

But I loved it so.

Loved to climb on it and play with it and tried not to stub my toe. Sometimes I would see other people's rocks and I would think theirs was better, or maybe funkier, and sometimes even thought I'd like to trade. But I was stuck with this one.

So I learned how to dance with it. And we had some great moves.

As I got older, my rock started growing on me and I couldn't imagine a prettier thing. When it was time to share my rock with my kids, all the rough spots had worn and the soft spots that were always there became easier to find.

The day I lost my rock I knew my life would never be the same. There were days my tears had nowhere to splash, or I could really use a nice bump on the head. There were jokes with noone to laugh, and stories that were never told. Those days were hard.

One day I felt the rock in my pocket. Way down deep inside where I couldn't reach it with my hand, but where I could feel it next to my leg. From that day on, I walked with a little pep in my step, some pride in my stride. Except the frustrating days I would try so hard to find it because feeling it wasn't enough, or days when it weighed me down and I just needed to run.

I am lucky to have had my rock as long as I did. Lucky to have had it at all. Super lucky mine rocked.

I woke up this morning and pulled on my pants. There was nothing in my pocket. It reminded of that day I lost my rock, that sad day, years ago now. It's funny how the rock would have been the perfect thing to get me through a day like this. (Funny is a funny word sometimes.) Today was easier in some ways than that day, harder in others.


I got through today as I do all others. Rocking my baby to sleep, singing softly and drifting off into thought. Through the window, I noticed a star twinkle in the dark night, reminding me that rocks don't die, they simply move on.