A Pocket Archive (50)

My other half often complains about his glasses, blaming the changes to his vision on a lack of sleep and a busy work schedule, rather than believing the optometrist when she told him its common for the eyes to change around this age. He's just "too young" to view the world through metal frames, and said they made him look like someone he'd probably punch in the face. He brightened up considerably when I told him I thought they made him look sort of like Christian Wolff from The Accountant (albeit more attractive), to the point I'd run if he started muttering nursery ryhymes. Ever since, he complains less and sometimes wears them for more than just reading or driving.

Somehow, my visit confirmed that my eyes have remained unchanged, and I'm the only person in my family who still has no need to view life through prescription lenses. Still, the way I see life has been altered drastically over the years, even if my literal visual perception of reality remains perfect. I had been made aware of far too much.

The slight chill from the early morning mist clinging to the fields was a welcome change from the higher temperatures of the week prior, and something in the air whispered a promise of fall weather in the near future. It would still be a month or two before all the insects returned to hell, where they belonged, but it was still a beautiful morning. The sun glistened off the surface of the lake, which shimmered like liquid gold, still streaked with lingering pinks and bright copper from the remnants of the recent sunrise. On the opposite shore, a few middle aged fishermen were casting lines from their canoe, and a pair of storks glided lazily overhead, but the lake was otherwise deserted.

I paced along the shore, hands jammed in the pocket of my hoodie, kicking an occasional pebble as I walked. One oblong stone I unearthed with the toe of my Vans turned out to be flat and smooth- perfect for skipping. I picked it up, rubbing the sand off of it with my thumb, considering it.

Years ago, I remember driving out to the lake one summer with my dad in his little blue pickup truck. The lake closest to our house was fairly small, surrounded by homes of the supposed "bourgeoisie", a small prairie dog town, and the remnants of an old dump. The shoreline also hosted tons of shell fossils, and there was always a small army of tiny brown toads underfoot, making it hazardous to step anywhere without looking first.

My dad and I never talked much, even though I know he loved me, but I remember that particular day being different. The ever-present wind was little more than a nice breeze, and the dog seemed to be enjoying it immensely from the back of the truck, where he stood with his head sticking out over the side, tongue lolling happily.

When we reached the lake, we spent an hour skipping stones and talking. Despite being older, he could still get between four and six skips across the surface, while I could only get a couple. I can still vividly remember him standing there, grinning in an old white t-shirt and ripped jeans, rolled up to his knees, ankle-deep in lakewater.

"Hey kiddo, you know what else skipping stones are good for?"

He pulled a Sharpie out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me before pressing a perfect skipping stone into my hands. "If you write your problems down on them, then you can get rid of them and throw them all away."

It must have worked, because I don't remember what I wrote on the rock, just the distinct plops of it skipping over the water.

Memory can be a lot like listening to an AM radio. A lot of it is fuzzy, with intermittent blurbs of clarity, but every once in a while there's something distinct and sharp, which stays with you longer than anticipated. There are many things burned into my memory that I would do anything to erase, but more often than not, I find myself remembering the good ones, like that sunny afternoon in July. Whenever I feel like I'm falling apart, I try to focus on those. It had done wonders to frame my perspective differently, even after everything that had happened, and while there were still plenty of ups and downs, I was genuinely happy with my life now, and I still found the world to be beautiful.

As I ran my thumb across the cool surface of the stone, I tried to think of anything I might want to be rid of. I didn't have a marker, but there were several charcoal remnants of twigs in a nearby firepit. Try as I might though, I couldn't think of anything specific. There were plenty of bad things happening around me, but they didn't impact me directly, and overall, things were pretty good. I thought about inscribing something mundane like "bills" or "allergies" onto the stone, but recurring inconveniences didn't seem like something that would count. Most of my big concerns had been entrusted to prayer, which were continually being attended to, and everything else I could think of seemed to belong more to the realm of wishes, like winning the lottery or hitting all the green lights on my way to work. But wishes aren't the same as prayers and worries. In reality, I already had everything significant that I wanted.

Suddenly, a high-pitched buzzing sounded next to my ear, snapping me out of my reverie, and I instinctively reached up to slap the side of my neck. Unable to think of anything else, I wrote "mosquitoes" on my stone in a barely-legible scrawl, and sent it spinning over the lake. It only skipped once, fracturing the sky's reflection for a moment before disappearing.

I stayed there a while longer, sipping an off-brand pumpkin spice flavored roast from my thermos, watching the surface of the lake until it became a cold blue.

It was an odd thing, being happy. I sometimes miss the naive way I used to view the world, but time and experience have also made me wiser, and feel I appreciate more now. There were still bad days, of course, but not many, and no matter how crooked and frightening the road which had brought me here had been, God was good, even when people were not, and He had proven time and time again that He can handle any problem, especially those that are too big to be written on stones.

"This is the day that the Lord has made;

let us rejoice and be glad in it."

-Psalm 118:24