rocks

what we leave behind and what we take with us

My alive sister and I emptied our childhood home after our mother died, and seven dumpsters, four Habitat for Humanity pick-ups, three auctions, two estate sales, 13 pick-ups from a quilt guild, and caravans of junk removals, all that was left were rocks.

Rocks from the Maine coastline where she and my dad vacationed as empty nesters, hitting antique shops, then bringing lobster rolls and books down to the rocky seashore to read the afternoon away.

Rocks from the Delaware coast, where my mom and dad tagged along with my young family, grandparents at last, letting toddlers lick the salt off rocks they found on the beach, then either throw them into the ocean, or put them in their tiny pockets to bring home and break my washing machine.

Rocks from horse shows and motocross races where she shut her eyes, unable to watch her granddaughters jump and race, but cherry-picked stones and hid them in her bottomless pockets as momentos.

Smooth and prehistoric rocks from Lake Ontario, way upstate, where my mom grew up, and my sister loved to vacation. Where I went to college. And fell in love.

Once upon a time.

We went back a couple summers ago, before yet another suspicious nodule was discovered, this time in my mom, returning to dump the rocky ashes of my little sister Jennifer, into the channel that separates Fair Haven Bay from the white-capped massive lake that is Ontario.

Read about Jennifer here; she was pretty special.

We watched as my brilliant sister floated, then sank to the bottom, I presume, or maybe was swept with the current to Canada, or perhaps eaten by a walleye or lake trout. Maybe a salmon. She liked salmon.

I do not know.

I do know before leaving, my mom filled her pockets and bag with stones from that sad goodbye, like she was on vacation.

Pink and speckled, like a jelly donut; smooth and gray like dark storm skies. Many heart-shaped, unbroken and strong. Some small enough for jewelry. A few so large, that she put them on her walker to push back to the parking lot, so I could heave them into my Jeep. The one like a hippo, she put in her purse so I wouldn’t lose it.

She couldn’t stop herself, like all the chunks of history she collected from her life lived, she chose wisely and carefully, then carried them back home to line the walkway of the house where she raised her family, the same one no one is alive to live in anymore.