What I’m Saying Is

There’s a beautiful beach. You get there by walking through a shady path, and then you’re on the soft sand. Some low hills far off, green and silver in the sun. There’s a couple on the beach. The woman on a towel with a hat to shade her eyes. The man in the water up to his calves, sifting through stones he pulls up from the bottom. He finds the one he wants and brings it to the woman. This stone, he says, spent a million years in the dark, part of some bigger layer of earth. Then, it spent a million in the light, sunning itself on the hillside. Then, a million underwater. Now it’s in my palm and I’m handing it to you and now it stands for love. It means I love you. She takes the stone. It’s a blue agate, smooth, with a ribbon of bronze. She holds it, and they kiss. Then, quick as a flash, another million years pass. Everyone in the story is gone. I’m gone. You’re gone. But the stone remains the stone. It is still smooth and blue with a ribbon of bronze, and it still stands for love. I’m telling you, it still means I love you.