|Eye Rock (Fantasy)|
I can see her grinding, rhythmic, stone on stone. Making medicine from herbs. Making food. Making memories: first, for those she served, memories of good meals, surrounded by good friends, celebrating a good harvest; second, for those she never met, memories of a time when baking bread was no luxury. It was the Way.
Grinding, rhythmic, stone on stone. She assesses the texture, and grinds on. The perfume of her meal rises, tells her the mixture is too warm. She slows her pace, but does not lose the song of her movements. A prayer of gratitude for the grain rises, borne from warm muscles, breath and steady work. She blesses the grain, and a bit of the blessing falls on the stone.
I pick it up.
Grinding, rhythmic, stone on stone: stops. Beautiful stone, did you know your wise woman would not come back, would leave you alone to face indignities of bird baths and dirt?
Why do you weep?