Mama, hold my rock
When he was 8, he asked me to hold his rock. I already had piles of his special rocks on the window sills and overflowing buckets of rocks, sticks, and shells in the garage. On that fall day, my coat pockets were heavy with dirty rocks he and his little sister found. I was pushing a baby in the stroller, leaning against it for support as my vertical c-section wound still hurt. I was exhausted. I didn’t want to hold anything. It was hard enough to hold myself upright. But the wonder in his sparkling eyes was too precious to squander. I nodded as he excitedly told me he found the perfect rock for me. It wasn’t the first perfect rock he’d given me, nor would it be the last. This one was shaped like a heart. It was just like the jewelry I kept in a box on my dresser. But it was bigger, fancier, and more expensive than we could afford. But we didn’t have to afford it because he found it for me. Wasn’t I lucky? I nodded and smiled while I searched for a snack for his sister. Sure, I was lu