Geology is a discourse, the study of the Earth, a rare definition worthy of an etching in stone.
A name, a foundation upon which to build.
Growing, shifting, changing, by man’s hand or the Earth’s, in a matter of minutes or across the span of eons.
Traversing the globe or taking up permanent residence, melted and molded together, eroded and disintegrated into miniaturized pieces of grander parts.
Many rocks of the same stone.
Serving the world’s purposes as a brick or watching patiently with no final purpose or destination in mind, defying time.
Doing unto the Earth as the Earth does unto it.
The forms are as many as their functions – paper weight, expressions of life, markers of death. Equal in value banded to a finger or as a freshly unearthed beach stone shored by the tide and perfectly formed for skipping. Buried treasure sans the x.
Meticulous in nature, rocks always appealed to Dad who said that if rocks could talk, every pebble would tell a story. It was his pride that he was able to read them.
The weight of history in his hand, the quilted fissures marking connections to be traced expertly like constellations of rocks in the sky, recovering their journeys, exploits, lineage, legacy as he passed along their bed time stories, imparting wisdom before gently placing them back along the trail and on their way.
Dad gazed through rocks to see the world more clearly, a polish applied to milky quartz and detested to see them hidden beneath paint.
A rock hound to his core who reveled in the discovery of even the most ordinary fossil, it was safe to say Dad always had an appreciation for rocks. Fitting I suppose, since he was always mine.
Rock from Earth, one and the same.
Fathers to sons, and back again.
Monuments left shaped in their image.