Sisyphus’s rock rolled down again. He cursed the thinkers. Each time a meaning was given to the rock – knowledge? love? – it fell.
If you would
sing for me
steer my heart onto the rocks
“Your head’s full of rocks,” Davy’s mother shouted after him as he hurtled down the track on his bicycle, dust clouding up behind him. She shook her head.
Round the corner, Davy stopped and got off his bike. He walked down the path towards the river, the velvet bag in his hand. When Grandad had given him the bag, Davy had found Grandad’s football and soldier medals inside. But now the medals were safe in Davy’s desk drawer and the river pebbles were in the bag.
“They might be rubbish to her but to me they’re treasure,” he said to himself. He sat on the stony beach and, one by one, took the pebbles out of the bag. He held them in his hand and looked at them one last time. Then, wiping tears from his face with river water, he walked back towards his bicycle, towards home.
I dive from the rocks of my now into the sea of my memories. Those I am so desperate to hold twist silver as lightning away from my grasp. Lungs aching, fists empty, I float back to the surface, my tears mixed with the salt. Again from sharp rocks I look down and I see them, peacefully swirling and calm. Again from the rocks I dive into my memories. This time I am so sure.
First published on paragraphplanet.com 22 July 2015