Skipped Rocks

It used to get late in Inner Richmond, long passed dusk into the midnight veil of shimmering glitter sneezed across the sky: me, her, and my brother, all huddled into some corner of her room, youths exchanging thoughts, our parents downstairs. But right now, still shone with sunlight, the three of us dragged zigzag footprints on the sandy city edge, Ocean and Beach shifting next to us in a soothing, slow motion Salsa. On a whimsical tangent from the others, I collected a small flat rock for the each of us, mementos for the moment, one a dull brown, one like ash, and the other white with strokes of marble. In nonchalant, mid-summer-day manner, we wandered, wandered continuously toward the ruins of the Sutro Baths. We stared outward at the crisp distinction of water and sky, and there was something about the innocence of the rocks, rough, not yet rounded out by the years, like our discussions of the existence we barely were aware of: days behind classroom doors, confusion with the opposite sex, the faults of friends, frustrations with our mothers who now seemed to be tugging at our shirts the same way we had done to them. Standing where we were, the chips of earth in my hand pupated into the chrysalis that we spoke from, inside them as we analyzed the life on the out. Soon, we would sprout colors on our membrane limbs and flutter away, apart: her, a social one; him, different sets of wings; and me, straight to the clouds. We headed back to the lower Avenues, and the sedimentary gifts, never given, skipped over the surface of the moment, slipped from my grip onto the dusty bookshelf, stacked atop each other tightly, like our bond on that last evening.

Copyright© | B.Meddlesome | 18 Février 2008

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