A Memory Of Stones, And The Reason For Reminiscence.
My desk rattles with the sounds of infinite trinkets, crowding what is supposed to be my ‘writing space’. My mother would be disappointed, but I can’t help myself. Each small curiosity or icon is a reminder of life, propped up and displayed in an amateur ritual of remembrance. They are especially valued during these unending days of lockdown. Reminding me that life exists beyond the bounds of this house, and that a time will come again when I’ll be reaching for rocks that I think might look nice as paper weights.
In a small jade bowl to my left, rest a collection of greying stones, plucked from the ice-cold flow of a river in the mountains north of Turin, Italy. It was a time before the word ‘Covid’ was common on the tongue, and we had taken a break from our ascent through mountain villages and woodland. The journey wasn’t steep, but the air had been heavy. Sweat dripped generously, and my clothes felt plastered to sticky skin. We rested by the river, welcoming the tide of cool air it carried from the taller peaks, letting it wash over us. The threat of rain rumbled through the valleys, and these grand peaks soon vanished into grey. But we stayed. We were already soaked through, what use would it be to worry about the rain?
I had chosen to rest on a rock, surrounded on all sides by the river’s flow. It was a moment of complete peace; nothing but the sound of water rushing past, and the light of a seemingly infinite summer day. My toes and wrists were dipped until my body felt it had cooled enough to sit up and admire the view. But rather than look around, I looked down. My eyes had been caught by a green glint from beneath the river’s ripples. Looking further, it appeared that this green was speckled everywhere beneath the surface. When my greedy hands liberated them from the river, they were revealed as beautiful aquamarine-green stones — as though they had stolen the river’s colour from beneath its nose. As quickly as they were in my hands, they were tumbling into the darkness of my pockets. Keepsakes to remember the place and peaceful moment by. Then before long, our mountain hike resumed, rising away from the river and onto dusty paths.
In truth, I forgot about the stones until I returned to London, ready to tackle the task of holiday laundry. When I reached into the pockets, I was sure there’d been a mistake. All I pulled from them were small lumps of grey. I checked the pockets of my other trousers, scoured the suitcase, but found nothing; these had to be the same small stones I plucked from the river. Now more grey than green, it was as though they had only borrowed the river’s colour. Having dried off in my pockets, they gratefully returned their colour to the flow, soon to be loaned to some other stone.
I could have thrown them out; scattered them in the garden. There’s no need to travel all the way to Italy to assimilate an underwhelming collection of small, grey stones. But I felt compelled to keep them. Not for what they are now, but for what they were and what they reminded me of. When I cast a glance towards the stones as I spend another day at my desk, I’m not reminded of the sweat, the crazed horseflies lusting after my blood, the heaviness in my legs. I remember the views through the valleys, strange mountain dwelling Italians, the river’s peace and relief. I remember grey as green; the stones’ beauty everlasting in my memory. I keep these stones so that I can sit at home in South East London, during a global pandemic, and remember that there are mountains, and oceans, and beautiful sights that I’ll see again. That is the purpose of memory. To remind us that beautiful things will come again. And that the beauty of things long-passed will leave impressions to last a lifetime.
