Ripples

A smooth stone. I was looking for a smooth stone—roundish and flat, perfect for skipping. Sauntering along the shore, my neck bent and eyes scanning. It took some time, but eventually I spotted it—light gray among darker blue stones.

Kieselstein springend

The water’s edge was only feet away. I wrapped my right index finger and thumb around the stone and slid it around until it fit just right. I crouched and leaned—my right shoulder closer to the ground—and threw. The stone (or maybe it was the thrower?) was not so good—two skips and a plunk. Out of sight. I walked away.

I didn’t know I’d changed the world forever.

The ripples were small—they barely made it to the far shore. But, they did—raising and lowering the water just enough to dislodge a small toy sailboat from the bank. Bobbing inTraditional small wooden sailing boat in the pond of park the bright sunlight, the boat, the ripples, the reflection, caught the attention of its five-year old owner. Owen reacted, leapt, and hit the water like a monofilament-crippled pelican. He hadn’t learned to swim yet, and he never would.

 

 

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~ by kipwkoelsch on July 9, 2019.

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