Gazing at Gravel
Kathy T. Camp
My son came walking towards me with his pants sagging and twisted sideways. His pockets were so full of rocks they were coming down with each step he took. He wanted to keep them in his pockets, but when he noticed that his pants were shifting, he decided to take them out. He found an empty clear plastic container and dumped them in it. After a little while, he called me to look at all his rocks. Well, it was gravel, from the gravel driveway. That’s where he’d found his treasures.
He held up the first gray and white piece of gravel and said, “Look at this one, Mommy!” I looked at it closely, quite aware that my response was critical. I could squash his little heart by saying, “That’s just a piece of gravel you got off the driveway. There are about 10 thousand more pieces just like that one.” But, I didn’t say that. I exercised restraint. My certain glazed-over stare gave me away, I was sure of it.
“It’s white and sparkles.” I said, forcing some enthusiasm.
“Here’s another one mama, look at it.”
Rock number two. Sixty four remaining. I studied it, well, I pretended to study it. I knew I had to find something good to say about his rock. I pushed aside thoughts of doing laundry.
“It’s a nice combination of gray and white.” I said.
“Look at this one.” Rock number three.
“Hmm. It’s darker gray than the last one.”
“Here’s a smaller one,” he said.
“Yes, it is smaller than the last one.” To myself I said, “If these rocks end up in my van-- Oh, it will be a mess.”
Zebbie peered into the bucket, moving the gravel around with his fingertips, selecting the next one for me to study.
“Here’s another one.” He said with such enormous pride that I was tugged away from my adulthood for a nanosecond.
Again, I peered in the direction of the rock in my hand. But then I shifted my eyes to study his face-- the soft, unblemished skin, his rosy cheeks from running outside, and his white hair tumbling in all directions. I watched his big blue eyes gazing at his collection with immense awe and pride. His passion created a second tug. It was enough to loosen my bound-up spirit like you’d loosen your belt loop after a satisifying yet overfilling meal. It was then that I decided to really try and find something original to say about this rock. So, I looked at it closely.
“Oh look! It’s got a dark brown spot on one side! Must have some iron in it.”
“Iron?” my son asked.
“Yes, iron makes rock look kinda brown, and sometimes red.”
“Let me see it again.” He said as he opened up his hand in front of me.
He was happy to see the brownish rock again. I felt the belt tighten again. “My life would be better if I never had to look at that rock ever again.” I thought. But then he passed it back to me with a certainty that tugged at me a third time.
“Yes, this sure is a nice one, Zebbie.” I felt myself slipping into a warm place, the place where tree-houses are perfect homes, worn out bicycles look better than cars, and anthills are small worlds worth watching.
One by one. Each rock had something in it that I needed to see, for him-- so he’d know that I care about him, and love him. So, I looked at the rocks. Small white ones, with little crystals inside of them. Smaller white ones, with more crystals. Some grayish ones, shaped like arrows. Some light gray ones--that looked exactly like the ones I’d just put down, until I studied them closely. Each one was unique and had beauty in it.
I’m trying hard to make this moment important, because I know it is for him. And, I also know that in about fourteen seconds, he’ll be eighteen, and I’ll wish that I could hold all his little treasures again, and watch him smile as he hands me a piece of the driveway. Each rock was beautiful. But what was more beautiful was the way he treated them. Like treasures. Like little diamonds.
It took us about thirty minutes to look at all his rocks. When we finished, he wanted to display them somewhere. I got him a book to lay them out on and watched him lay them down, one by one. For that moment, his world was simple. He was creating order among chaos. He took sixty-four random pieces of someone’s driveway and organized them by size and shape. He sat next to his display, refining the arrangement, with his pink little fingers.
He achieved his goal, I’m certain of it. What he didn’t know, was that he shaped my world that day. My world of ‘getting things done’ was set aside. My son looks for beauty in the gravel that crunches under my tires. He finds it. Luckily, he invites me to look for it too.
