Stone #10

That night, I found my son sitting on my old bed in that old room, holding a stone.

“Found this by the dresser.  Is this yours?”

I nodded my head, wondering how I’d missed it.  I hadn’t counted them, though.

Fate?

I told him the story.  And after I’d unloaded all these emotions of what my father was to me and how I didn’t want that same anger and frustration for my attention from him, I tried being a father (which is really all you can do; no single man in all of history has ever been a father, only trying trying trying) by spouting a dozen or so little facts and pieces of wisdom I could.  And seeing the all-too-famililar face of mixed confusion and awkwardness, I took a deep breath and remembered my meditation exercises.

I told him that joke about a Buddhist monk and his newest pupil.

“Do you get it?” I asked him after.

“No.”

“It means that no one knows what they’re doing, so I guess just keep trying your best.”

“Oh. Okay,” with a smile of relief.

Seeing that he was still bobbling the stone (#9) between his hands, I asked him if he wanted to keep it.

“Don’t you want it?”

“Not anymore.”

(Stone #1)

Salineras_de_Maras,_Maras,_Perú,_2015-07-30,_DD_03-07_PAN

 

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