13. Four years. Six drives across this country. Across lakes, rivers, oceans, tears, dreams, devastation, inspiration.
Twenty stones, gathered by the same hand in the lapping water. Sand muddy between toes. The unknown. Unpacking my few remaining possessions into my new home. The one that is mine, that will be mine, for years to come. Twenty stones. I don’t remember where they came from, but I know why I picked them up.