by John Homan
For many years a small smooth stone lay on a roadside next to a desert highway coming down a mountain. It was an attractive smooth bluish grey stone with interesting black lines and flecks of quartz that made it sparkle. It was both flat and rounded at the same time. It was the sort of stone you would pick up and put in your pocket for no good reason. It spent the long hot days wondering why it was there, what purpose did it serve? The other larger rocks around it found this very annoying and told the smooth bluish grey stone to be quiet.
Then one day the sky turned dark and the clouds opened up with a clap of thunder as it began to rain. Before the smooth stone could complain to the other rocks, it was quickly picked up by a fast-moving flow of water coming off the mountain. The other rocks were heavier, and not picked up so easily. They stayed behind, discussing how it would finally be quieter without the smooth stone around.
The smooth stone found itself crossing the black road that had defined the border of its world for so long. Tumbling over and over, the stone mixed with the oily residue and the dirt on the road, changing its lovely color to a shade of sticky, muddy beige. In seconds the smooth stone had cleared the guard rails and begun to tumble down the side of the mountain, picking up mud and pieces of gravel as it rolled. The smooth stone remembered all the questions it had asked the other rocks and how it had annoyed them by questioning everything. But as it tumbled down the mountain, covered in all kinds of muddy gravel, the smooth stone found itself longing for the side of the mountain road again. It promised itself it would accept its station in life if it could just stay in one place again and simply “be.”
Almost in answer to that promise, the smooth stone found itself falling through the air. Below it loomed a large flat blueness that confused the stone as it became bigger and bigger. Finally the stone hit it with a splash, sinking deeper and deeper. The stone did not understand what was going on, but as it tumbled farther down, the oil and gravel came free and it was clean and bluish grey again. Its flecks of quartz reflecting in the sunshine coming through the water as it finally landed in a pile of other smooth stones of all shapes and colors. The other stones welcomed the smooth stone to their home, explaining the water and the fishes who lived among them. A large fish began to swim among them and deposited eggs in the water. One of the eggs rolled under the smooth bluish grey stone. It stayed there and hatched into a fingerling fish who stayed near the smooth stone because it could hide under it when bigger fish came by that might eat it.
The smooth stone was happy. Not only was it with others that cared about it, but also it finally served a purpose by just “being”, and as a home for other creatures. It never wondered again what it was there for again, the answer was obvious, it was a stone and did what stones have always done. It simply “was.” That was a good enough answer to all the questions that it used to obsess about. It was a smooth bluish grey stone, and that was enough.
John Homan is a poet and percussionist from Bend, Oregon. He is a graduate of Indiana University. His work has appeared in Chiron Review, Former Cactus, and Misfit Magazine among others. He is the founder of WordPlay Open Mic Night in Elkhart, Indiana where he lives with his wife and two cats, Henry and Lucy.
John’s Website is: https://about.me/john_homan Follow him on Twitter @john_homan.