by Dave Gourdoux

A young boy,

thirteen, maybe fourteen years old

is standing on the shore of a river,

wide and deep and slow, its surface glassy smooth.

He is dressed in a plain black t-shirt and

blue jeans coated with a thin layer of brown riverbank dust.

It is late August, warm ,with a gentle reminder in the coolness of the breeze,

that summer is almost spent, almost gone.

He reaches to the ground and picks up a rock,

black and smooth and cold, it fits perfectly In the palm of his hand.

He lifts the rock to his shoulder

and in one fluid motion he releases his grip and sends it airborne.

At the precise moment the rock leaves his hand,

many, many miles away

you are born,

and you begin the trajectory of your lifetime,

until the rock meets the river’s surface with the violence of the splash that gives way to gentle ripples

that quickly fade away,

and when the last ripple has vanished,

many, many miles away

you die,

and you rest,

all pain and suffering stilled,

warmed by the memories of those you loved

And the places you visited

in this too brief a moment

we call a “lifetime.”

/