A Small, Smooth Stone

In the summer of her ninth year she was beginning to learn her place in the world. Pushing her boundaries, walking on her own two feet. Mistakes were many but trust was like a small, smooth stone that she carried in her pocket. It was there, just in case.

Darkness had begun to stain the sky one Sunday night. They had just returned home from church. Everyone was hungry, cranky. The customary post-church meal was scrambled eggs, oozing with melted cheese. Her mother was at the stove and the smell of the quickly pulled together dinner crept throughout the house.

Her father was at the front door. He was locking up for the night. She was whiney – wanting something. Begging. His answer was no. She got bolder. He got angry. She got mouthy.

{Escalation. Never good on an empty stomach. She knows this now, as an adult. He should have known it too.}

Suddenly, his arm shot forward like the snake she had once seen hurrying out of the vegetable garden. That harmless old snake had traveled on by, out of self-preservation. Not this hand. This hand grabbed her by the throat, lifted her on her toes and pinned her to the huge front door. He leaned in close and whispered, "You will never speak to me that way again. Do you understand?" Her head hit the door with a nasty thwack.

Tears burned. She couldn't nod. She couldn't speak. She couldn't breathe.

He put her down and walked away. She sank to her knees, raw tears dripping.

As she cried, she imagined each tear landing in the old well in the backyard where she sometimes played. She imagined that as her tears radiated slow circles in the surface of the water they were joined by a larger splash – that small, smooth stone that she had known as trust.