We dropped the car off to be inspected this morning, Edward and I, which meant that we had to walk home. It’s not too far, and we brought the dog with us to make it more of an adventure. Also, Edward walks a lot faster when the dog is pulling him and I have a lot to do today.
The road home from the body shop is paved with dirt and small pebbles, and we walked through the stones in wonder, looking at all of the other cars (probably race cars), the construction vehicles that were driving around, and at all of the other exciting things that popped into view as we explored our way those five blocks home. As we turned out of the parking lot and onto that dirt road, Edward stopped and yelled “Daddy, look! A ROCK!”
I looked around, but I must confess that all I could see were just rocks, and none of them stood out to me as anything special. So many rocks, each one unique and yet dull to me. But Edward made a beeline over to one of them, and he scooped it out from among the other rocks, chosen from many as the one rock. It was slightly larger than the other rocks I suppose, though not the largest rock I saw. It was perhaps a teensy bit sparkly when the sun hit it, but again not moreso than some of the other rocks. Why had he chosen this rock to carry home? I was perplexed.
As we continued our journey I began to feel that the fault lay not in the blandness of the rock, but in my own eyes. He was clutching the rock so tightly, and yet so lovingly, that there must be something that I was missing about it. Why couldn’t I see the rock the way that he saw the rock? Why were my senses condemned to the blindness of adulthood? If I had been five, would I have instantly seen the appeal of that particular rock? Would I have run to it and snatched it up on the walk home? Or would I have found another one even more appealing? Why did they all look the same to me?
About halfway home Edward asked me to hold his rock for him, so that he could hold the leash more steadily. There were several other dogs out this morning, and Anna was tugging heartily at her restraints. I held the rock in my own hands, poring over its every detail in an attempt to understand it. As I turned it around between my fingers, suddenly I began to love the rock. It was not special for its own sake, but I loved it because he loved it. My son had chosen this rock above all other rocks, and it didn’t matter why. What mattered was that I was holding a piece of him in my hands. I smiled as I held the rock close to my side, and then I let myself enjoy the rest of the walk home in peace as I watched my son go ahead in front of me.
