Shiny Things

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The stone was large for a river stone; Melissa had struggled to move it to the back corner of the garden where it anchored her herb bed.  The afternoon sun warmed it and it radiated that heat back to the herbs as the sun went down.  Sometimes, she built small cairns on it with little stones, small acts of meditation and a way to mark moments of gratitude.

Nonetheless, hairy bittercress seemed to love to grow just under the stone’s curve, protected from Melissa’s hoe.  So she often found herself reaching just underneath the stone to pull the weed out by its roots — until the next little bit sprouted.  And she was down on her knees doing just that when something pricked her fingers.  Melissa pulled back and shook her hand.

“Ouch.  Damn.  What’s that?”

Carefully, she lifted the stone up just a little bit and looked underneath.  The pin of an old brooch was poking out of the sandy soil.  Melissa pried it gently out of the dirt and dusted it off.  An old cameo, ringed in tarnished metal appeared.

“How’d you get here?” she asked.  “You weren’t there last year when I put the stone here.”

/To Be Continued

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