Getting Re-lost

I was 79 years old before I knowingly climbed a barbed wire fence. Now I can’t honestly say I climbed it. It was more like pressing the bottom wire down with one foot while pulling the top wire up with both hands, hoping none of my important parts got caught in between.

That may not feel very adventurous to you, but I pride myself on a lifetime of minding the rules.

Returning library books on time, not putting my elbows on the table, and believing fences were there for a reason are important, which made it extremely difficult for me to explain why I was on the wrong side of one.

I dusted off my hands, placing one hand on my chest, and looked up.

There it was.

The stone.

Stone was the wrong name; monstrosity fit better.

I was flooded with equal parts anger and awe, and six months of sleepless nights, tormented by the sight before me. What right did it have to steal sleep from me, the one thing that brought me relief? But awe won over today, the day I meant to have a face-to-face talk with this impertinent monolithic rock.

I worked my way carefully uphill, never taking my eyes from it. Ever since I first glimpsed it while getting lost on the road, it has imprinted itself on my eyelids, invaded my waking thoughts, and then called to me in my dreams. Stopping for a moment, mindful of my heart and its mis-stepping beat, I stared.

Been there forever, the locals said, with as many tales as there were tellers.

The monstrous part of the stone, the wide finger of it, jutted some fifteen feet into the air, as if it had been tipping and frozen at the exact moment before falling. One had to stop and stare, waiting for it to finish the journey and crash to earth. Instead, it rested in a nest of smaller moss-covered boulders like a hen sitting on eggs.

“Careful now,” I declared to the stone, “Don’t you think of going anywhere before I get up there, I've got a thing or two to hash over with you.” I set to mumbling then, about how my lunch crew at the senior center would be scandalized if they could see me now. About how my doctor might say I shouldn’t live alone anymore. He already suggested I shouldn’t be driving. Imagine that!

I glanced down at my socks, bristling with burweed and stickers, and even my old shoes were decorated with the clinging pests.

Before the shade of the stone touched me, I felt its satisfaction at my arrival. My lips twitched, trying to settle on a frown or a smile; gaping wasn’t proper. I reached the base of the stone, shuffling closer, and rested one hand against it, ignoring the tingling of my skin and the rising hairs on the back of my neck.

It was a bit warm, and that surprised me.

After six months of dreams, I had expected something. Cold perhaps. A vibration. Some sign that I hadn't lost my senses entirely. Instead, it felt exactly like a rock.

"Well," I said, slightly out of breath. "That's disappointing."

The stone, being a stone, declined to comment.

I walked slowly around it.

The backside was exactly as I had dreamed it. It was fully covered in the shadows, dark and pitted with holes, some big enough to slide a hand into.

I know what you’re thinking, and I was telling myself the same thing: do NOT stick your hands in those holes. But that’s exactly what I did.

Not just any hole, but the very one the stone seemed to call my hand to.

Cold, damp, and deep.

My fingers pulled out a small disk with no trouble, and I released a shaky breath. I squinted at what my hand held, then slid down my readers, always perched on my head.

A dirty, old penny dated 1947. A short laugh burst out of me, and I wavered a bit, realizing that if I didn’t sit down, I might fall. No one would see me from the road if that happened.

“Well,” I announced specifically to the stone with a bit more wonder. “How did you know 1947 was my birthday? Almost no one else remembered.”

“I’m not one to have a pity party, but I guess you could say I feel a bit forgotten.”

A calm, quiet filled the air.

“I suppose you can relate to that feeling stuck out here on the curve of a country road, waiting for someone to get lost and look up and finally notice you, like I did?”

I said that part like a question; I didn’t want to be too presumptuous.

What did I know of a rock’s life?

Then I remembered how angry I was about being kept up at night by the dreams and the calling, that mesmerizing pull to return right here. I stood up stiffly, returning slowly to the stone front.

"For six months, you've been pestering me and carrying on.” I put on my best aggrieved face, glaring at the stone, shaking a finger at it.

“Do you even know what that can do to a person my age?”

The stone remained silent.

I gave up a perfectly good nap to climb up this hill today.”

Only the insects buzzed about, and a few birds called.

“I had to take up drinking sleepy-time tea and taking melatonin, and listening to Spring Rain on a sleep app.”

“Had to ask my kids for help setting that up… I think they are tired of me.” I looked away, “Sorry, that’s too much information.”

Then, hands planted on hips, I added, “Now look at me. Trespassing!” My lips curled in a deep frown.

The stone remained unmoved.

“Well,” I muttered, “That’s pretty much what I wanted to say.”

The shadows had started to deepen, giving the stone a forlorn look, and I felt a bit contrite.

I sighed, “That’s not the only reason I climbed all the way up here.” I looked at the ground. “The old busybodies I have lunch with at the senior center didn’t believe any of this when I tried to tell them about you waking me up at night in my dreams and such.”

“They almost had me convinced it was nothing. Tried to talk me out of coming to look for you again, as if I was just imagining everything. Like I was some old fool.”

Then, for good measure, I added, “I am late because it took forever to get re-lost in just the right way to find you again.”

My mind flashed back to the terrible argument my kids had with me over the car. I glanced down the hill, seeing it parked crooked and dust-covered.

I smiled widely, hugging myself. “I think this will just be our secret,” I whispered.

I looked at the penny clutched in my hand.

"Well, I can't take something without leaving something."

The stone remained reserved.

So, I set to fishing around in my pockets, looking for something suitable, a tissue, a safety pin, oh my, an old receipt. Then I found the butterscotch candy, still in its wrapper.

I looked at it.

Then I looked at the stone, slipping the penny gently into my pocket.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

Then I placed the candy in a deep hollow, turned, and started down the hillside. It wasn’t proper to stay long on a first visit.

A week later, I was back. This time, I wore my tall plastic rain boots and carried a large bag over one shoulder containing a mini picnic and a book I had checked out from the library about famous rocks and such. I planned on reading it to the monolith. I glanced up at the stone, seeing the sun dance on its front, and smiled. This would be a proper meet-up.

“Hey, you”, I called up to it, “I haven’t heard from you, so I thought I’d stop by!”

The stone remained stoic, but I wasn’t put off. Already feeling the swell of pleasure at meeting a new friend, I laughed.