You skipped like stones along the whites of my bones, sunk down where they're hollow (except for you). Walking along the beach, every creak of my knees, I hear you calling. One, two, three...to nine! I never skipped like that before. Nobody here to see. But I know you know, down in my bones -- with a flash of my teeth, you show me.
I skipped all the round ones, the flat ones, the light but misshapen ones. All the blue ones, then the green ones, and the black ones with white spots. Rust-colored, marbled; heavy and smooth -- those always seem to fly the farthest. All the stones from the beach and the stones from the shore until deep beneath the water, I couldn't see them anymore. I wonder how long before they find their way home, and will they be the same? Or will the rough ones come back smooth and the black ones gray; the round ones flat and the green ones blue; the heavy and misshapen ones broken in two? Slowly, coldly, lapped back upon the shore, left to wonder if the stones they are now are the stones they were before.
He was a proficient skipper, no less than four, with a technique that contributed to my learning. Something in his eyes said, 'Shoot from the hip,' while his mouth just smiled. We shared a hug, no handshake, with fists full of stones. He motioned toward the shore where just yesterday I had evacuated all the stones. I smiled and pointed the other way, not ready to see if they had yet returned and if so, what condition the journey left them in. He stayed, and I wandered on, skipping stones in his direction.
Chicago-born citizen of the globe, rich in the things that really matter. Let's get weird.