Among my grandmother’s gravel driveway I searched for quartz. The sparkle of the inside hardly visible in the shells we would split open. A child’s eye seeks many invisible treasures, has many uses for a single stone. Smooth pebbles were intended to leap across still waters. Round rocks became mortar and pestle. Gravel mixed with mud became potatoes simmering in soup. I listened to a poem yesterday about sea glass, which I think is less rock than phenomenon. Colorful glass appearing as polished stones worn by water and salt. Now I seek it, a child still chasing rocks and natural formations. How lucky am I! I dream of stones both polished and unpolished. My wild spirit. His gentle hands smoothing my stone. I’ve hardened. Learned love as competition, left each battlefield harder than slate. Now, my uneccessary defenses risk starting a war where this is none. I, too, can be softened, smoothed, polished. I, too, can be treasured in someone’s hands and remain strong.