Stepping Stones
My mom has recently gotten into making stepping stones, especially for places she's been. She'll collect rocks, seashells, etc. and press them into wet concrete, forever preserving a trip. Or a person. She made one for my cousin Sean, which I like. Once we finally landscape the backyard ( which, knowing my dad, will take years) and there is a path with these stones interspersed, I can visit Sean's stone, since I can't visit his grave. I can lay down a flower or some other small offering and talk to him and maybe he'll hear me. The first stone I made was for myself. It is full of stones and shells I've collected over the years, plus some of my mom's too. I wrote my name on it and filled the depressions with tiny beads of my favorite color. I wonder if my mom will lay a flower on it and talk to me from that stone when I am far away. And if somehow I'll know she's thinking of me.
It's comforting, I think, to do things in a ritualistic fashion. For instance, I made a list of all the things I want to do before I die. I don't call it my "Bucket List," by the way. I made mine before it became a fad, and simply titled it, "Things to do before my last day." When I open it though, it's a ritualistic thing. I can't just open it any old time, somehow that would lessen the magic of it. These are my biggest dreams, my deepest longings. No one else has ever looked at it. I made a special box for it, with a hinged lid and a design I painted. When I open it, I must sit in a quiet place, gently open the carefully folded paper. I look at it only to add a new thing to the list, or when I feel that I need a reminder that there are great things in store for me if I just reach out and grab them. It's necessary sometimes, to be reminded of that.
I think today I'll take a walk down to the end of Winton, where my mom collects the majority of her shells, rocks, and fragments of pottery. I think I'll do some collecting of my own. And although I'll cherish the walk alone, I wish I had someone who would walk with me. Someone who would not mar the silence, but simply take my hand, and smile at the sun on the waves, and love would pass between us without words, borne on the sea breeze.