Eight ordinary pebbles

[Guest guest]

I have eight ordinary pebbles in my pocket. I don’t know what to do with

them. I can’t just drop them on the ground. I do maintenance work for a

grocery store. This morning early I saw some clutter in the parking lot,

and I stepped outside to pick it up. As I walked over I saw that the paper

was held down by some rocks. Even as I bent down and swept the pebbles

aside I realized that they were arranged in a pattern, a sort of tiny cross,

and there was writing on the paper. But I should back up a bit.

 

 

 

There was a teenaged girl who worked at the store as a checker for a short

while. This was at least a year ago. I didn’t really know her. She was

very young, had a real hippie appearance and an attitude problem. She

wasn’t around very long. Well, she’s gone missing. The paper on the ground

was just a small copy of the poster that’s been hanging in the store for

months. But it also had writing on it from three different people. Two

were from friends of the girls, saying “Call me, or at least call Jess!” and

“You’ve got to show up!” The third basically said “You can have anything,

just please, please come home. Mom.” I stood there in the cold breeze

before sunrise – a man who’s been separated from his own children – feeling

that family’s pain, and not knowing what to do. Then I picked up the paper

and the stones.

 

 

 

The paper was wet and dirty, and I didn’t save it. But I have these eight

tiny pebbles, very ordinary pebbles, that I can’t seem to let loose of.

Every time I feel them in my pocket I say a prayer for this girl and her

family. This is a small city, but not so small that people pay much

attention to each other. I know over the holidays, I’ll be wishing that

girl home.

 

 

 

Dave

 

 

 

Semper in fæcibus sumus, sole profundum variat.

 

 

 

 

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