Pebble

She gave me a pebble. A worthless piece of shingle found amongst the beach, something she’d casually plucked up, and placed upon my chest. She gave me a pebble. Smoothed and bleached and pure, and chosen. Her care, her attention, spent in the bazaars and alchemists lined up along the shore.

She gave me a pebble, she also gave me a cage. Not a prison but a subtle strong room, in which this pebble would be laid. “This pebble, this worthless piece of shingle, this glory of the bazaar, is yours. Whatever.”

I listened.

“But the cage.” I drew away. “I will not lock.” 

My answer, my arrogance, “But will you still hurt?” 

Truth and courage, “Yes.”

So I offered her the pebble, the smoothed white pure pebble, the responsibility, just the responsibility, repulsed me. I still wanted the pebble, I was sure of that. “Good” she whispered and she studied its form cradled in amongst her fingers.

Tides came and tides went. Her fingers traced the purity. She even took it to her mouth, to taste, before, “You are worth the risk” and she placed that pebble, just the pebble, back on my chest.