old friends

Fred is a river rock that I found one Sunday afternoon when we went for a family drive and stopped beside a country creek. I found Fred and he made no protest when I picked him up and took him back to the car with me.

My sister had been married just weeks before, which meant that I no longer had to share a bedroom. To celebrate I had nagged my parents into allowing my brother to paint what was now my bedroom. In a day, the room had gone from a mix of pink, blue and yellow to white and orange. What paint was left over, I used on Fred. I can only add that Fred looked good as an orange rock, it brought out his best features.

“There you go, Fred. Home Sweet Home.” I said to Fred, placing Fred atop of a pile of books in the middle of my freshly decorated room.

Now, don’t get all silly on me and think that I imagine full conversations with Fred. In all our years together, I was thirteen when I found Fred and I am fifty-three now, so that means forty years, Fred has never once spoken to me, and I know he never will. Fred is after all a river rock. However, I can speak to Fred if such is my want, and it is – frequently.

It is one of the better relationships in my life