VI

On a first date, once, I found a large stone in a creek bed. I kept it as a memento, these findings we save during moments of joy in the hopes of one day lifting them and setting time backwards in our minds. I discovered recently that this particular stone fits flawlessly into the palm of my left hand. Literally, it is as if I had molded it myself in my fist in a soft state and it had hardened, reflecting the contours of my palm and fingers, pressing equally at every space of the flesh. If the affair had ended better, I might have seen this as suggestive, as hinting at something hopeful, but now it seems to be more of a coincidence. Perhaps my brain, scanning through the water and rocks, quickly diagnosed its resemblance to the outline of a part of the body that belonged to it and signaled the arm quickly to recover it. Perhaps there is no reasoning behind it. That seems most likely.

There's something human to attaching value to the inanimate—to see forms, to see meaning where there is none: the Virgin Mary in a grapefruit, Frank Sinatra in the sole of an old shoe. By the same logic, nestled in my hand, the rock occasionally resembles the shape of a human heart. Sometimes, lying in bed, I'll hold it and consider it this way, rubbing my thumb across it, urging it to begin beating. "Come alive," I'll whisper. "You're safe here." But it can only be what it is: smooth, and cold, and ancient as the waterway from whence it came.