A resident just brought me a rock from where he went on vacation. I had asked him and had explained why it was a thing for me. He understood, promised discretion, and that he would take only what ever rock or pebble reminded him of me.
I only had one restriction for him. No lava rock. Because I haven’t pissed off Pele, and I’m not about to start now.
He brought me a water rolled black rock that fit perfectly in my hand.
It was several hours before I realized just what kind of black rock he brought me. I called him and challenged him.
“Yes, it’s a lava rock but not a fresh lava rock. There’s a stream that cuts a channel through an old lava flow and spills into a secluded pond. I got that rock from that pond. [My family and I] were swimming there and I put my hand down under the falls and you came to mind so strongly I thought you were there with me. That rock was under my hand when I thought of you and every time I pick it up I get the feeling it was yours the moment you asked me [for a rock].”
He doesn’t do woo. He read between the lines and asked if I was a “back country woman”, to which I had answered “of a type”. He said he would have risked a greater anger from “whatever was watching” if he didn’t take the rock than the bad luck of taking a lava rock.
Maybe it’s the warm fuzzies of being considered. Maybe it’s the rush of getting what I wanted. But for the past couple of hours I’ve been buzzed to the point of distraction and I realize it started the moment I was handed the rock.
Well then.