My father took me into the wilds frequently in my youth. Far from my humble tumble-weed and brushfire beginnings were cascades of goliaths, sneering down at me from their summits with a gaze of both judgement and guidance. It’s children, the stones on the riverbank, varied like the seasons; each carrying its own unique sentiment and complex substrate of sediment. My body of grey weary stood amongst giants, and found solace alongside the riverbank. The lake echoed the faces of the mountains, my father’s and my face alongside them.
The water was as still as stone, replicating and enacting the motifs of a mirror, only to be suddenly shattered into a million pieces by the arrival of a flung stone. The water’s surface cried in agony as it dipped into itself, filling its void in a raging torrent of imperfection.
My father watched me continue to fail miserably, relentlessly chucking boulders into the lake and stomping in frustration when they would sink before even a single skip. His delicate and grizzled hands fell upon my spriteful shoulders, as he softly told me to relax. He told me something akin to “Rome wasn’t built in a day,” and that in order to succeed, one must learn to take each and every step methodically; each step being slower than the last. I knew nothing of Rome and swiftly discarded the notion, hoping for an analogy more reminiscent of dinosaurs or baseball. He bent down on one knee and cautiously pressed his hands into the pile of rocks on the shoreline.
His strong and defiant hands sifted through the stone, delicately finger-skating into the earth. I grew impatient, yet
inquisitive. With his ocean-blue eyes closed, he began refining the earth with his very fingers, until suddenly, he
struck gold.
Rising from the ground, he cradled a small, flat rock in his fingertips. The stone curled in the mold of his hands, as he
began to coil his body like a snake. Stretching his hips as far as he could, his elastic form sprung into action, casting the stone across the lake. The first skip was nothing short of marvelous. Gracing the lake’s presence, the stone jumped
from the lake like a salmon, only to soar across the surface like an eagle. Then, another skip. Smaller than the last, and
before I could even process the distance the first skip had made, the stone skipped again. And again.
The water’s surface rippled majestically, with each skip seamlessly echoing perfect circles along the lake. The skips swiftly became closer and closer, until suddenly, the stone beautifully exploded. Like a firework. The stone and dirt residue scattered gloriously, spreading chaotically from its origin. The debris vigorously fizzled and sparkled within the reflection of the lake, until it calmly and gently dissipated into an abrupt stillness.
I stood in shock and awe. I had spent hours upon hours just adopting the first stone I found and carelessly lobbing it into the lake. His craft first unfathomable, now undeniable. Before I could process the magnificence of this stone-born masterpiece, his grizzled hands fell upon my shoulders once more, and gave me a small, yet confident nudge.
“Go on” he said, his blue eyes glinting the same sparkle as his goliaths behind him. “One. Step. At a time.”
▲▲▲
That was twenty years ago, Now, my father has fully embraced the mountains, as the goliaths blow the breath of his voice through the trees. The glint of an owl’s keen eyes. I know he’s watching. Basking in the shadows of giants along the riverbank, I place my hand upon my own stones’ spiteful shoulders; and teach them how to finger skate
the same way my father taught me. ▲
