Pebbles and Stones

Katie, Haley, and Kenneth, a close cousin,

and I walk back from Gabba's pool

at her Cape Cod condo.

Gabba is convalescing from a kidney stone

operation, not feeling her best, but still

as intellectually perky at 79 as ever. Go, Gabba!

The surgeon blasted the large kidney stone with a laser,

turning it to smoke and dust. Sarah and Liz,

her attentive daughters, had a tough evening of it

before her prescriptions arrived.

Katie looks to entertain the five year olds,

finds a storm drain, and teaches Haley and Kenneth

how to drop pebbles down into the water,

to make intriguing, resonating sounds.

The five year olds are definitely intrigued.

Such entertainment just below the surface.

We seek out pebbles, different sizes that echo and resonate.

They look for sources by the roadside,

I look for metaphors and cars.

They bring pebbles hand over fist

let them fall one by one,

savoring the sounds.

We become expert. Different

pebbles have different sounds. Haley says,

“My pebbles make a tiny plop.” Rocks

are too big for the grate, sand carries no tune.

Finally, when time's up and dinner's waiting,

pebbles fall en masse, a grand finale, rain

from the sky. We move on.

God first uses pebbles

to give us messages, and I recall

how with Katie at age 3, 4 and 5,

she and I found storm grates that made neat plopping sounds

and we plied the trade.

At eleven she helps them find pebbles,

smiles, and says she still remembers.

I'm glad. Those years are golden.

God next uses rocks, then boulders.

The mind is an echo chamber.

Infinity is always in the palm of our hands,

but time is flying.

Hair goes silver, then just goes.

Dinner table conversation with grownups my age

shifts to maladies, mysterious aches.

I'm more comfortable with these pebbles,

these expeditious forays into the future,

these years, the tiny, musical plops they make,

and I'm listening.

-- John Chamberlain