Memories of Rocks
Dad and I are bumping along in the old truck he’s had for decades. Our new garden was missing something, and we decided it was a trail in and around it made of big river rocks. He told me I’d be a lot of help on this mission and I believe him.
I struggle to maneuver my small body over the bank of rocks, but hold onto my confidence that I’ll be able to make my way back across with one of them in my arms - a sacrifice of balance. We take turns pointing out the best rocks, but Dad ends up carrying the most.
We have to be slower on the drive home because of the heavy load. I don’t mind because it’s more fun to hang out with Dad, and I have time to recover from my short-lived rock carrying experience.
Once we’re home I know I can help, although the uphill trail into the backyard looks more daunting than usual. I make a few solid–but gradually slower–trips up, but my pile doesn’t quite compare to Dad’s yet. The rocks are growing further and further back on the trailer so it takes work to get them off. I lean over and start to scoot one towards me. As soon as I deem it close enough I shove my hands underneath and lift. But this one may have been a premature decision because it falls right back down on the tip of my sensitive finger, squishing it between the metal trailer and monster rock. I pull it right back out and stare as it heats up and produces a drop of blood that starts to run.
Dad was close behind me so he sets down his rock, grabs my finger, and kisses it. I look again and the blood is gone.
“Vampire.” he explains, pointing at his canines, and dries my tears with stories of our unbelievable family history, leaving me distracted with hopes that my fangs will show up one day too.
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I hopelessly try to spit the hair out of my mouth again, but I’m reduced to keeping one glove off to help. The wind is relentless and facing the violent Chitina river makes it even worse. But I’m responsible now, and since it’s just me and Dad this morning, it’s my job to keep a close eye on him while he’s out on the wobbly deck of the fish wheel. He needs to get the fish out and kill them so that later he and his friends can filet together. I know this is the whole point of us going on these trips, but surprisingly the cold wet wind is not my favorite part. I do my best but sometimes I get distracted shuffling my boots around in the little rocks below my feet.
Soon, he’s on the shore next to me and I’m excited to go on our walk to the more calm section of the river. We ride the four wheeler along the trail most of the way over but once we reach the rocks it’s better to be closer to the ground. That way we can closer inspect the piles to find our lucky wishing rocks. Those are the dark gray or black rocks with at least one white stripe all the way around. I fill my pockets and hands, so does Dad.
We collect until we’re both full or until I’m impatient, whichever comes first. Then we get as close to the shore as we can, just in view of the old train tracks, and Dad skips his flat rocks as best he can over the rushing water. I try but usually end up giving up and tossing them all as far as I can. There’s a moment of silence between each throw while we’re making our wishes. We never ask each other what they are, that would ruin the good luck.
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I’m standing in wet sand on the Homer shore, admiring my now coffee-less paper cup’s designs. It’s covered in ocean swirls and salmon and other Homer-esque designs. This is just a pit stop on the way back to our hotel on the end of the spit. Driving back up, we’re all squished but still happy in the backseat singing along to music.
Instead of walking into the hotel, we walk around it to see last night’s bedroom view in person. We’re on the edge of the ocean and the edge of Alaska. I’m still holding my cup and start filling it with interesting rocks as my friend starts filling her pockets.
Stella, my friend, stops me to point out an otter laying about twenty feet from us on its back. We both pause our search and watch it, until the stillness becomes boring. She resorts back to looking for big rocks to add to her already full pockets. I change my focus to something heart shaped for a loved one back home. We’re walking in the other direction of the otter now, to not disturb it, and slowly getting further from the hotel. I’m moving at snail pace, combing through as many rocks as I can: up, down, across, over and over. I overlook many different rocks to find what I want now. Before, I was eyeing colors that stood out and unnatural–or too natural–shapes.
There are lots of close calls, but an unfortunate amount of these rocks have a too-shallow indent. They were made as almost hearts. I’m eventually successful in finding one semi-heart shaped rock, one black rock with a white heart seemingly printed onto it, and one dark rock with a heart-shaped hole. But the search was brutal. These rocks aren’t only special by nature anymore: the unrealistic shape of the heart, each manufactured with a different and unique kind of texture. But I looked long and hard for these with one person in mind.