StriatedTexas

We had a gravel driveway, and I considered myself a geologist. I collected the rocks and pebbles, sifting through the congregation and picking the ones that stole my eye. Some were smooth taupe, others were jagged, salt-and-pepper blocks. Most were grey and grainy, unless held at the right angle. Then they formed a face, an image. That earned a place in the bag I kept.

During an excavation, I found a small oval rock with clean edges and a craggy surface. It was green, brown, orange, white, grey, and black. Striated, like canyon walls. As if billions of years were compressed into a stone the size of my fingertip; as if three years in Texas had been summarized by a colorful rock.

Green, for the three acres of grass we owned, the trees that hid our house, the tangled garden in the backyard, the hummingbird that zipped past the dining room.

Brown, for the tumbleweeds that rolled onto our patio. Orange, for the flash after I was thrown off a horse, and the glow of the fire on Christmas Eve.

White, for the bathtub by the barn that watered the horses and the ice that froze over it in winter.

Grey, for the chain-link fence, the mockingbird singing alone, and the days that grew longer.

Black, for the house we left forever. I studied the rock for a few seconds. Then I tossed it into the plastic bag with all the other stones and pebbles.

29 Creative Essay