The Rock

You stand under a rock
Both hands up, stretching, shaking.
The place beneath, green, inviting
"Picnic?" you ask.
"Yes. Lovely idea."

Soft bread, cool water,
grapes, oranges
A creek nearby sings
a soft song

With one hand up, holding the rock
You reach out and stroke my face
"Beautiful." you say.
"Yes, it is." I agree.
"No, you are beautiful."
"In the shade, how can  you see my face?"
I want to say.
But I know he's looking at a memory.
As am I.
So I say nothing.

The rock teeters
I step backwards
off the blanket.
Back into the sunshine.

Warmth surrounds me.
I see him, he's still standing with the rock,
holding it with both hands now.
Telling me "It's okay. I can hold you and the rock
simultaneously."
"But you can't."
He lets go with one hand, reaches out
to me, and the rock tilts, grazing my scalp.
I dart away just in time to see it hit the ground behind me.
Dust flies around me while I slip away.

From a distance, I see him pick up the rock again,
with both hands.
He has to carry his rock
Up a hill.
 He doesn't need to stop
for a picnic. The winter is coming
and it's harder to climb in the snow.

I walk into the forest, which used to look
dark and foreboding.
The mid-day sun breaks through the leaves
making dancing shadows on the earth.

I'm walking, looking, listening.
wondering if he has left yet, to start his climb.
I want to look back, but I know that I musn't.
It would pull the clouds over him, over me.
Blocking our view of the world.
Things that we need to see.

My rock is behind me.
I carried it for sixteen years.
That was exactly the amount of time
I had to carry it
to build the strength I needed
to do the job in front of me now.

I don't know what lies ahead of me, but I do know
where I am.
It is a place in the woods,
where little flowers are blooming,
the kind that need dampness,
and a good measure of darkness.

I smell honey and apples.
And hear baby birds calling for their mother.
I'm thirsty and hungry, but I know
abundant food is just on the other side of this forest.
I'll keep walking.