The sudden weight of a single stone

I died on the plains.

On the Meseta.

Like I was meant to.

Meseta. A word with bite, two softnesses before the teeth and tongue take the end off. Like Nabokov. Bitten.

And now at the top, before the cross, the Cruz de Ferro, I contemplate the tradition of leaving something behind. I have my stone. A chip of quartz, an arrow head, sharp enough to draw blood. In my palm it points away. A way. The way.

What should I leave? My fear? Yes, I hope. The need to please? Please. Looking for approval perhaps? What do you think?

The idea of a world that is dangerous? Yes, that.

The sharpness of thoughts in my palm, I imagine them going. My hand opening as if it held something else, a flower perhaps, released into a stream, gravity running it downhill, into the blue haze of the plains. There to rest, my stone flower, petals shearing off, settling on the bank somewhere unknown.

I let it go. It drifts away from me, even as the rest of the world collects around my feet.

On the way to Cruz de Ferro, we stop on the track and take our stones from our pockets. We talk about what we want to leave behind, at the top of the hill. What things we will leave at the cross, burnt from us as we walked across the open plains below.

You decide you don’t want to leave the rock you’ve chosen because you like it and want to keep it.

“What about taking that one?” Your Mum suggests, pointing at a rock at the side of the path. You agree and bend down to pick it up, your rucksack shifting as you do so, threatening to spill its contents. You stand back up and we keep walking, still talking about what to leave.

“My toenails.” You say.

“Yes!” We both jump on the thought too eagerly.

“Let go of the fear of cutting your toenails.” Your Mum says.

“Good one.” I add.

“No.” You respond. “ Let go of my toenails. Then I won’t have to cut them.”

…

We keep walking. We are surrounded by green, shaded now and again by trees. Moss hangs off them, cobwebs of it like sea mist on the masts of old boats. Trees like boats. A flotilla of them sailing across a mountaintop. The rain has stopped and the sun is again blazing heat into the day. Not the heat of the plains though. It’s softer. More humid. We clutch our stones, carry them as we climb the hill. The road snakes around just below us but up here cars are few. We are suspended momentarily, out of touch with the rest of the world. We keep talking, tossing around the things we want to leave behind as if they are light, easy to discard.

Fears. Expectations. Dissatisfactions. Their weight is variable but up here, where the trees float on the green sea grass and the sky opens over us, anything is possible.

We keep walking because that’s what we do these days. The rain has stopped but you still have your raincoat on. You swish when you walk and look a bit like a plastic hobbit. A hobbit named Sam. Your head swishes towards mine and you peer out from your hood. Your face is serious.

“You won’t leave me behind?” You ask.

“Never Sam.” I say. “I will always carry you with me.”