Writing

Wendy Klein

I am Stone

Every cell, hard and cold. I hear I am called stone. Old, grey, trodden upon for centuries. Broken, chipped, wet, repaired, discarded. But there is community here – lying next to others like me – variety of shapes, fitting together - some including human word shapes. Those seem somehow special put in place to the accompaniment of ritual, many humans gathered, speaking, sweet smells, water flowing from eyes, outcries. But once gone, that stone joins the stillness of our kind, not so different after all. Warmth comes and light splays across me making a pattern that joins me briefly to another. Then it’s gone and the chill returns – a resignation, if human, a sigh. Footsteps above, words, sounds of dragging as furniture not used for years is reshaped. Sounds and silence, regularity of presence occurs just for a short time. Taking the chill off the aloneness just for a moment.

Wendy Klein
Gyoka Zenhyo

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