Memories of Sand and Stone
By Emma Fulenwider
@amateur.mom
At 9 a.m., I climb slowly onto our bed, adjusting the pillows upright against the headboard and settling in with a glazed mug of hot black tea. My husband’s deep inhale signals that I have unintentionally pushed the “up” button on the elevator of his consciousness.
“Hey,” I whisper, “wanna see something special?” Thomas rolls his head toward me and cracks one eye open as I present an ordinary piece of quartz in the palm of my hand. After a beat, he gives that prelude to a laugh, a huff through the nose, his eyes squeezed out by a knowing smile.
This is our latest recurring joke, a Fulenwider Family meme. Rudi, our kindergartner, has suddenly become a collector of rocks. Not just any rocks, special rocks. We find his special rocks in the washing machine, in his backpack, on shelves throughout the house. They are loose change in the currency of the curious child.
Most often, they are ragged chunks of common quartz, which he picks up on the walking path to and from the school bus and wherever cheap landscaping can be found. They look alike to everyone but him, who insists that this one is special.
I’ve tried limiting his acquisitions, especially when we only have time to walk to the bus stop if we don’t pause to pry up rocks. “Leave it! Gah, okay, just that one, hurry up though.” If he drops one, he has to go back and find it among the hundreds of other rocks that are, by all accounts, exactly the same.
Today, when we make it to the bridge and there's nothing but blacktop from here to the bus stop, he cups the grainy nuggets in his hands and lifts them for inspection. The imminent arrival of the bus will not deter this boy who has newfound treasure to show his mama. I strain my neck to see if the other kids are lining up down the path, but he doesn’t notice. He has to show me right now. Feigning enthusiasm, I say “Nice! Why don’t you pick one favorite.” But there’s never one favorite. There are always at least four favorites, and today is no exception. An incredible four-way tie for the Most Special Rock.
He gifts them to teachers, friends, passing neighbors, complete strangers, and, of course, his mama. He puts them in my pocket, or my purse, or leaves them on my nightstand. Lucky me.
I don’t think he aspires to keep them forever. The thrill of the moment overtakes him, he can’t resist the urge to wrap his fingers around another rough edge and hold it for a while. Perhaps he stores them carelessly here and there, not realizing that, someday, when he most needs it, there might be one hiding in the back of a dresser drawer.
For now, his parents gather on their bed on a Sunday morning, or in front of the TV late at night, and enjoy Rudi’s special rocks and other daily family jokes. Like Avila’s unorthodox fashion choices. How the old dog played a new trick on the young dog so he could snatch the toy.
Sometimes Thomas gets a reminder on his phone of photos taken “on this day” three years ago and we look at them—marveling at the themes of yesteryear. Before rocks, it was paper hearts. Before fashion statements, it was bedhead. Tokens of memories, like a ticket stub in the pocket of a forgotten rain jacket.
There is never only one special moment on any given day. After the kids go to bed, we unload our pockets and show each other our treasures.
Ordinary moments, on ordinary days, that all look alike to everyone but us.
***
I once saw an artist install a pinhole camera overlooking a landscape, which he left in place for exactly a year. The resulting photo was blurry but distinct—vague impressions of the land in a combination of all seasons.
It’s a familiar blur. Perhaps these memories of my kids will be stacked together and overlaid in my mind, becoming not unique snapshots but a general impression of these ordinary days. It’s a nice thought when I can’t even remember yesterday’s four favorites. Polaroids in reverse, fading from the moment they are taken.
To save every moment would be an unbearable burden, like letting Rudi pick up every single rock he sees and carry it home. I have made peace with the un-keepable nature of my treasures by collecting handfuls of moments whenever I can, knowing I can only hold onto them for a few days, maybe a week or two. I store them in the colander of my memory and accept that they are lost too soon and forever. An hourglass that is always filling from the top, with nothing to catch the sand at the bottom.
My hope is that a few of these treasures of the mind survive the ravages of time and the realities of human weakness. That someday, no matter how far into the future, there is a found piece of quartz in the back of a drawer that reminds me once more of moments like this, laughing on our bed on a Sunday morning.
Guest essay written by Emma Fulenwider. Emma is a literary agent, TEDx speaker and contest judge for Writer's Digest. She is the author of The Toy-Free Home and hosts a virtual buddy-bench for moms on Threads. Emma lives in Sacramento where she reads books, kills plants and conspires with her husband to raise the two goofiest kids on earth.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.