Skipping rocks with my father prepared me for mortality. No matter how low we got and how hard we threw, the rock eventually sank into the dark water. Sometimes a really good throw would sputter out in a curving series of skips. The round flat ones that fit snug against the curve of my finger flew the fastest from the whip of my wrist. But they all sank.
Rocks that were more perfectly shaped and weighted went the furthest. If too light, the rock went airborne and down: one big skip. Too heavy, the rock skipped a couple times and sank near the shore.
Mom is 91, so I guess God threw her hard, or maybe she is just the right shape. It’s all in God’s wrist, but I’m on a diet again.
