A Gift of Stones


At a lunch recently, our hostess asked us to tell a childhood story of Christmas.. I was caught unawares by the sudden prickle of tears brought by the deep memory that came unbidden.

It was Christmas Eve. The boys were off doing whatever it is boys do at the seaside: searching for crabs in rock pools; swimming out beyond the waves; coming home salt and sun bleached. The girl, even at seven, didn’t mind being alone. The garden that encircled the holiday cottage was a tropical tangle of banana trees, Frangipani and Hibiscus. Shadowed wings flitted through the trees. Lizards, faster than her reaching fingers, slid into cracks and crevices as she approached, but it wasn’t the lizards that she wanted.

Her hair, free for once of the tight, white bow that her grandmother insisted on, swung over her eyes as she bent to look for her treasure. It had to be a certain size, small enough to fit into the packet hidden under her pillow. The narrow, silver packet was covered in green and red patterns of holly and mistletoe. She had taken it from her mother’s horde of wrapping paper.

The pile of stones grew larger. Finally, the girl sat down to make her choice. Each stone was tested. She ran her fingers over the surfaces, feeling the hard smoothness that whispered of history. There was a safety in stones; she could feel the ancient certainty of being in their weight. Carefully hidden in her pocket, she carried her treasure inside. She slid it into the packet – perfect.

The next morning she waited for her mother to find the packet amongst the pile of gifts being handed out. Then, there it was, with the scrawled ‘To Ma’, so difficult to write on the silver paper. Her mother’s blue eyes lit up. It was beautiful, just what she wanted. Perfect.

After lunch, the girl took her new Christmas annual into the garden. She went through the kitchen, still littered with plates and the debris of the day. In the corner, peeping from a pile of torn wrapping paper, was her packet, still heavy with its stone.

Why did it matter? To the child, it was a treasure discarded. To the adult, the memory was a reminder of how easily I sometimes dismiss the things treasured by others. I still love stones. I have brought them home from Stonehenge, the Great Wall of China, the base of the pyramids at Giza and the courtyard where Nelson Mandela broke rocks. I have been given a stone from the middle of a town called Nowhere and from Auschwitz. In my classroom is a pet rock called Horatio, kept in the cage made by my grandfather so many years ago. From the top of the Drakensburg Mountains, there are three stones brought from the place where we buried the ashes of my mother, father and brother Michael just before Christmas last year.

We all have our treasures. Let’s guard the right to love who and what we love, no matter how strange it may seem to others.


(My book of poetry, 'Landscapes of Courage', is now available on Amazon in Kindle format.)

Comments

  1. Norah1 January 2014 at 04:28

    What a beautiful story. Reminds me that every gift from a child is a precious thing to be treasured, a gift of themselves, worth far more than any store-bought gift ever could! I'm pleased that your collection of stones was not thwarted by the seemingly insignificant, though thoughtless, act of discarding the gift without any attempt to protect, or nourish, your feelings.

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  2. Cindy9 March 2014 at 11:23

    My mom isn't one of those cuddly mothers, or even grandmother now. But children adore her because she listens to every word they say and she acknowledges & keeps every little gift a child gives her. She would put the tiniest flower in the tiniest flower pot, and put it in the middle of the table.

    And now I'll probably forever be looking for rocks for Ruth

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