July 28, 2020

how to stop a war 

Find a smooth, flat rock that can sit, equidistantly, between thumb and middle
and forefinger. Slip it into the front left pocket of an ancient pair of jeans you can’t seem
to throw away. Lose yourself to the clutter of your days - appointments, arguments,
wait times with a maddening jingle on repeat, toast crumbs the sponge always manages
to leave behind. Pay the bills, mow the lawn to within an inch of its life, forget to add
baking powder to the chocolate cake, lose your keys, start another notebook for that 
writing practice you said you needed. Drink too much coffee and sleep badly. And then
one afternoon, discover yourself at the foot of some body of water that stretches out 
past your line of vision. Squint into that unnegotiable distance. Your hands will tuck away
into a worn, remembered space. A stone will meet you there, and together, you’ll cross.