Skipping Rocks

Skipping Rocks

I remember standing on the shore of a lake in Minnesota one evening, waiting for the sun to set so we could build a campfire and make smores. My brother, two sisters and I had spent the day swimming until our lips turned blue and our arms and legs were red-splotched from the cold and mom said it was time to come in and get dried off.

In the last minutes of daylight, the lake was flat calm. Not one wave on the water.

I picked up a flat rock, palmed it in my hand, like my brother taught me, and with a flick of the wrist, let it fly.

It danced upon the surface of the water.

One hop. Two hops. A skip and a jump.

And every place the rock touched, ripples appeared, spreading out in wider and wider circles, until it seemed the entire lake was alive with their movement.

Skipper of Rocks.

I think that would be a wonderful thing to put on my resume, right after Whistler and Folder of Origami Frogs and Reader of Bedtime Stories.

I want my life to leave ripples that spread out in wider and wider circles, until my world is alive with their movement.

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