The Talking Stone (*Sentimental Sunday)

(*Sentimental Sunday is something I will be doing from time to time to showcase some of my older works, so look for more in the future if you like this one or go check out my other blog via the link near the website title.)

My Grandma once gave me a bright little stone,
that in the right light seemed to glow on its own.
Within it lay all of the colors of dreams,
and perfectly smooth, no pockmarks or seams.

Its glassy veneer was a joy that I relished,
Perfectly beautiful yet quite unembellished.
Its majesty lain within its smooth skin,
shining somehow not from outside but in.

One day she asked me if we had spoken,
I stared at her as though her mind had been broken.
She said listen closely, when you hold it so tight,
it won’t talk to all, but to you it just might.

Alone in my yard I pondered her words,
a stone that could speak well that’s just absurd.
Yet as the sun sank and the air grew much crisper,
I just could have sworn I heard a soft whisper.

I jolted to hear it and opened my hand,
Then laughed at the prank that had been so well planned,
but looking around no one else was outside,
so I must admit I was quite terrified.

Frozen in fear, ears open with wonder,
I longed to know what kind of spell I was under,
But as I sat still and listened quite fiercely,
The voice came again like a pin that had pierced me.

“You that cares for the stone, I have things I should say,
so listen intently please don’t run away.
I know that you’re frightened but be sure you aren’t mad,
for the things I must tell you are nothing but glad.”

The voice carried onward with tales of a girl,
whose beauty so brazenly fell on the world,
that all who would meet her would swell up their chest,
For the moments that they shared with her were their best.

She caught the attention of many a soul,
who when they had seen her were sure they found gold.
She spent her days cherished and loved and adored,
and those who stayed with her would never be bored.

I thought what a gift to be born with such beauty.
The need to be kind would be much like a duty,
for the line was so thin from this to vanity,
it could make a coquette more like calamity.

The stone spoke again with a tale even greater,
of a woman who was beaten down by berators,
Their weapons their words that aimed to strike down,
‘Til she found herself prostrate to them on the ground.

But then she stood up and smiled at them sweetly,
She turned and she left them behind so completely,
she never again would be badgered this way,
Nor would she return such a heinous display.

She walked on with pride through the rest of her time.
The shock on their faces made her feel sublime.
She was free from their cruelty and bowed not to their hem.
Their dismay turned them bitter and soon decayed them.

I felt so excited to hear these great stories,
to live such a life filled with strength and such glory.
If only I could become my hearts own master,
Perhaps I could avoid self-fulfilling disasters.

Finally the stone said “there’s time for one more.”
I was brimming with glee for what could be in store,
so the stone began telling a well woven tale,
and I sat and I listened as the moon set to sail.

A woman lay dying surrounded by love,
some wept and some shouted their pain high above,
She thought of her days and she felt her time slipping,
so thankful for all the hands there for the gripping.

She remembered first love, and the moments of heartbreak,
The moments of triumph, and the shame of her mistakes,
The love she was shown even in tiny moments,
From a spouse or a child or a stranger, all potent,

The things she had battled to get to this place,
The snow on her tongue, the rain on her face,
Life was peculiar but spent mostly in smiles,
Though tears would come visit her once in a while.

As these thoughts overwhelmed her she felt a great peace,
and ever so quiet, warmly snuggled in fleece,
She took that last step into the unknown.
Grateful for the treasures in life she’d been shown.

With tears on my cheeks as the last word was spoken,
the stone that I gripped in my hands was now broken.
I buried it in the rose trimmed flower bed,
and shuffled inside to lay down my head.

My Grandma was seated inside as if waiting,
She sat in a rocker deeply contemplating,
“It spoke to you didn’t it?” She finally exclaimed,
But her look of excitement was doused by my pain.

“I heard the same stories when I was your age,
the last one sure filled me with small bit of rage,
but now that I’m older I see its true value,
and I’m sure when your older you surely will too.”

I hugged her and asked her just what was the purpose,
of bringing my soul right up there to the surface?
She said ”My sweet one it’s the way to be certain
that your actually living before comes the curtain.”

I smiled at her comment it made more sense now,
I would live like those women, I just wasn’t sure how.
We both shared a treat in a bowl of ice cream,
and then climbed the stairs to seek out our dreams.

As I lay on my pillow recalling the women,
A small voice spoke some words that made my head start swimmin’
“Those women are all parts of you, my young girl
Please oh please never hold fear for the world”

I startled and sat up but I was alone
Just one more sentence had been left in the stone
A message delivered in the still of the night
to set me on course for the rest of my life.

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