Pebbles Against the Riverbank

The witch threatened to turn me to a stone.

But if I were a pebble against the riverbank, I think I would find solace. Dipping my feet (turned round edges) into flowing water, cool in summer air, I’d sunbathe until the sky evolved to nighttime. I’d be fine to freeze in winter, for if I was a pebble against the riverbank, my friends would be beside me. I imagine we pebbles against the riverbank could understand each other even without a voice. I mean, we’re pebbles against the riverbank. 

Maybe I wouldn’t want to be a boulder. To be a boulder would require solitude. Would it not be lonely, to stand against time and erode under washing downpour. Although maybe then, eventually, I would grind small enough to become a pebble against the riverbank.

“What kind of stone?” I asked.

She paused, head tilting with her waves of hair, “what?”

I shrugged, repeating, “What kind of stone?”

She choked out a cackle. It took over her body like a curse, forcing her to a half fold. “Nobody’s ever asked that.” 

“Is it not an important question?”

She wiped her watering eyes. I didn’t know I was that funny.

“Well, I suppose so.” She returned to her composed posture, flowing fabric relaxed as if fell over her steady stature. “Are you not afraid of being transformed?”

My head fell in thought. Was I not afraid? My arms rested against my side, palms dry and content. Did I want to be a stone, surrounded by peers along the riverbank? Was I not afraid? A pebble wouldn’t be. For they were free from the demands of modern society, immersed only in their own trickling stream. 

“Maybe not.”

Posted 9.5.2025