If Stones Could Speak: Stories from the Silent Witnesses

the oldest known bricks date back to 7,000 bc last week a lost mitten told us about the fleeting warmth of a single winter but some things aren't meant to be lost some things are made to stay my name for instance is the one she scratched into my face with a sharp stone elara her hand was small the stone sharp i felt the scrape a new line on a surface that had known only wind and rain for a hundred years she whispered the name as she wrote it a secret between us she was maybe seven years old that was the first touch then came leo a few years later he

was all noise and motion kicking a scuffed leather ball against my neighbors until she told him to stop her voice sharp they would sit here their backs pressed against my row their arguments were like summer storms loud and sudden and over just as quick one year he used his father's knife to carve his own initial next to hers a clumsy l beside her careful e they held hands that summer sticky with sweat and stolen plums later they fought his voice was a low rumble hers was tight as a wire he wanted to sign up to leave she wanted him to stay

he left anyway she stayed her forehead pressed against my cool surface and i felt the dampness of her tears seep into my pores he came back once in a uniform that didn't fit his shoulders they didn't speak they just stood together for a long time the silence between them heavier than stone then he was gone again for good this time i thought she kept coming back every season for fifty years tracing the letters sometimes she would talk to me quietly about the price of bread the new baby down the lane the deep silence in her house

leo was just a name she no longer said out loud a ghost i held for her years fell away like old mortar her hair turned the color of ash her visits became less and less frequent one autumn afternoon she returned she was old now her hand resting on the arm of a young woman she stopped in front of me her fingers twisted with age found the faded grooves of the letters he was my best friend she said her voice a dry rustle the young woman looked confused

i thought grandmother you always seemed so sad when you spoke of this place alara smiled a small slow thing sad oh no not sad just remembering he didn't die in the war she explained her voice finding a bit of its old strength he came home he married a girl from the next town over had three loud sons who looked just like him he moved to the city across the sea built ships and i i married your grandfather i had your mother we lived

the granddaughter was quiet so you weren't in love hilara laughed a sound like dry leaves skittering oh we were in love just not the way you think we were in love with being young with the idea of forever she took the young girl's hand and placed it over the carving we promised hilara whispered that no matter where we went or who we became a piece of us would always be right here together this isn't a tombstone my love she said it's a promise that some things can hold a place for you even when you're gone

and i understood i am not a memorial to something that was lost i am a foundation for something that endured i am not an ending i am the promise itself kept