the stone within her hand

In the morning under the hot sun, she peered closer to a smooth stone about the size of her palm. She held it close to her eyes in between her hands. It was smooth on all sides and the color of an eggshell.

She turned it over several times in her fingers. No edges, divets or cracks. Completely smooth. Cool to the touch, then warm where you held it. She touched the stone to her lips to feel its smoothness.

She stood up and walked turning the stone over in her hand. She wasn’t sure where she was headed, but she walked with authority, with determination, as if she knew where she was going.

Her pace picked up and she gripped the stone tighter, breaking into a run. Leaves and twigs crumpling underfoot. Buzzing cicadas all she could hear except for the sound of her own breath and heartbeat.

Rays of sunlight glinting into her eyes as she kept moving. Couldn’t see. Brightness piercing her eyes. She closed them squinting as water welled up in the corners. She opened her eyes looking low then looking forward. Everything white light and shadows of grey within grey. 

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