If you know anything about little boys, you know they love their pockets. Pockets are for hands. Pockets are for Lego pieces. Pockets are for spy wallets and keys and coins and marbles and strings. Pockets are for the random bits of playdough that any preschool-aged kleptomaniac would find irresistible (that’s what I tell myself, right before Mr3 and I discuss the rights and wrongs with walking off with the entire class supply secreted in various pockets). If they don’t have enough pockets for their treasures, they’ll use yours.
Today, I was rummaging through the pockets of a jacket that I haven’t worn for a little while and came across a rock. Not a particularly lovely rock. A bit of dried-up cement, if the truth be told. But as soon as my fingers touched it, I remembered. This was a Beautiful Rock.
Mr3 picks up a Beautiful Rock for me every couple of days. Some days my pockets get so full with them that I jangle and click as I walk. When he gives them to me, he says the same thing: “I found you a Beautiful Rock because you are beautiful.”
The dried-up cement is still in my pocket. How do you throw out a Beautiful Rock?