I sat on the beach, collecting stones. I pulled a stone that was already rounded from an ancient sea when the soft sand it sat in turned to stone, ages upon ages ago. I sat because I had lost my thread, and when that happens I need to orient myself to something much bigger. I sat because I had held the hand of a stranger through the last minutes of his life, both of us pawing at the futility of it all. I sat, picking through the stones that fate had assembled beneath me. What countless summers have caressed these stones? Here but a blink, what foolishness I am, meandering between doubt and hope, stumbling about the stones.
Photo:
A day at the beach, ©2010 Timothy A. Sandstrom
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