Dad's Touchstone

I sent my father a new Petoskey stone.   Some years ago I gave him one that someone I had helped gave to me.  He carried it in his pocket.  It was unpolished but Dad polished it, over time, just touching it. 


He recently lost it . . . I found him another. Mailing it made me think about my touchstone.  What brings me peace in the times when things are hardest?  


One of the best for me is his voice. It’s simply the sound of Dad’s voice.  Certainly, we disagree about many, many things.  It’s not what he says, more just the deep timbre and cadence of the way he talks. 


That voice has always been there and I followed it home. 


Once from the brink of blackness, that fuzzy edge where the world drops away.

Once from real blackness . . . . softly speaking to me in ICU.



Often, unknown to him, in the night when the aloneness reigns.


So, Dad has his new stone to polish, and as often as his fingers touch the stone to put it in his pocket, I will hear his voice in my head.