Many years ago, when I was a small boy at the seaside, I plucked a gleaming amber colored pebble from the surf and put it in my pocket. I was merely following the suggestion of a popular nursery rhyme that advised such action when catching a falling star, but I had never even seen a falling star, never mind caught one, so the amber pebble would have to do. It was shiny, after all, so what was the difference? There were many other attractive pebbles on the beach, but only that particular pebble, I decided, would not look out of place in a heavenly constellation.
Back at home, I set the pebble down on the top of my dresser, which served as a makeshift altar for all the found objects I had brought in from the world outside and deemed worthy of display: a crispy length of shed snake skin, a kaleidoscopic toy marble, a damaged tintype image of an ancient couple, an old, chipped Toby jug. Alas, being no longer wet, the pebble had already lost its luminosity and the gleaming amber color faded to a dull tan. It looked like any other ordinary stone you might find on the ground. No longer a shiny substitute for a falling star, it was also no longer worthy of display in my youthful eyes.
Of course, nowadays I realize that was a shamefully shallow judgement. Jejune, as they say. Clearly the pebble was still an object of wonder despite losing its wet-look allure. Because what an amazing journey it had made from unknown foreign shores to the top of my dresser. A falling star simply drops out of the sky and is either caught, supposedly, or just disintegrates upon impact with the Earth. My pebble, however, was the Odysseus of pebbles. How I wish I'd kept the heroic pebble instead of disappointedly tossing it into my mother's garden. I sometimes think about where it might be now. I hope it made it back to its Ithaca.
Comments