Fingering the grayish white stone, which she believes might be granite, she thinks, I need to find a suitable partner for this.
The next day, under a cloudy sky which threatens rain, she visits the northern beach, with its black sand hiding under a top layer of shining silver sand. On the deserted beach she discovers a stone with a brilliant violet tint complimenting its otherwise pale complexion. She pockets it, but says to the sea, “This isn't the match I sought.” She continues along the shore, manipulating the grains of sand, searching for a treasure. A second worthy stone presents itself, gray but speckled with vibrant red. It induces a pleasant tactile sensation, not rough, but enjoyable to play with in the hand. Yet, it doesn't satisfy her as a partner for the previous day's find. “I want to make the right match, for the stones are old. They need a perfect couple. ” She passes under the edge of a cliff. Even at low tide the sea recedes only slightly, leaving only a foot wide patch of sand. Reaching into the strand she plucks a third stone, a milky white pebble. Is it quartzite or maybe marble? She can't decide.
Returning home, she takes the four stones into her workshop, where she sets them in a line upon her table. Putting aside the second and third pebble, she arranges the remaining two in front of her seat. Looking more closely she realizes they differ significantly in appearance.
Though both white, the sunny day stone looks solidly durable, with a yellowish grey tint. It looks dirty, as if it suffered a scuffle, with a scar on the front, and two grooves across the back. It is elongated, rectangular, nearly ovalish, and just a bit too large to nestle in her palm, though she can close her hand around it, if she positions it correctly.
The latter, a purer white, appears translucent. When she holds it up to a lamp, the light passes through onto her desk. It shines with a glossy sheen. Though it is clearly a single rock, it looks like it was formed of three pieces smashed together. She hypothesizes that a sharp tap from a hammer might separate them, but doesn't experiment. Partially elongated, it is almost squarish, but with curved edges. Its smaller size fits perfectly in her palm.
From the desk she takes out a pot of paint and a brush. With a few practiced motions, the outlines of a fig materialize. A few more strokes with different colors adds leaves and a juicy, pinkish-red flesh. She set them aside.
….
A month later, while staying at a bed and breakfast on their honeymoon, a young couple was greeted at breakfast by a spread of eggs, cheese, and figs, accompanied by a note and two painted white stones. The note remained private between the writer and the couple. But they carried the stones back home.
The white rocks, older than any person on the Earth, had never traveled so far so fast, crossing an ocean to their new home. What had been two were one, never to be separated.
In the apartment the stones were placed together in the bedroom, witness to the new and expanding family.
They heard the end of the day talk common to couples; of first days of a new employment, of the birth of the first (and later) children, of birthdays, of the first day of school, of scraped knees and cavities, of friendships, of pleasures, and of pains.
The couple, now a full fledged family, moved, carrying those stones with them. Replacing them on a new shelf, the couple was reminded of their union by the stones. Unaltered by the decades they remained faithful witnesses to the family, while those around them inevitably aged.
They heard of the sorrow of the passing of parents and siblings. They witnessed the joy of grandchildren. Through the lengthening decades they remained together.
Over the course of a marriage, there are nights where only one spouse returns to their bed. Travel, whether for work, family, or pleasure temporarily separates lovers. But there are few reasons for an extended absence. The stones were witness to a truancy which they knew to be permanent. They found a new shrine in a new house.
The rocks saw the daily libation of tears, of their sole remaining owner. As they waited for the end.
It doesn't matter whether it's one or twenty years bereft of a partner. It happens to all eventually.
On the final trip to the hospital, they asked for the stones. They held them in their hands, and spoke the last word of the name of the spouse, gone before them.
The children looked at the body of their late parent, recently retrieving the stones from the palms.
Time accelerates ever swifter, as it does for the elderly.
The children divided the stones, split them up, no consideration for how three divide two, or the consideration of the feelings of the sundered. But each wanted an heirloom, a remembrance. One child, now an adult, called the number on the back of the stone, inquiring about the bed and breakfast, and the painter. A kind operator replied that the location no longer existed. They held onto the pebbles for as long as children can hold onto the memory of their parents. The children's children might have retained them, if only to supplement the vague and failing memories of their grandparents. But at some point, descendants lose track of their distant forebears. Successors care nothing for their predecessors if they never knew them. When no trace remains of a progenitor, no attachment remains.
Where did the stones end up eventually? Beside the roadside, in the attic of an unrelated owner, on the beach, or in a collector's cabinet. Not with the woman who collected, painted, and gifted them. How far is eventually? But those objects, to which two people had symbolized everlasting love, were separated again forever, revealing only a temporal existence.
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