when i was a kid, i thought geodes were the literal raddest thing ever. my first encounter with one was accidental -- i found this dusty, oddly light-weighted & hollow-feeling rock on the edge of my yard, and held it up to the sun. when i twisted it, i saw a bit into the corner and saw it was sparkling inside. so...i cracked it! i done threw that thing on the ground and squealed at the sight of purple crystals like little mountains inside. that something so unassuming, so meek could contain that kind of raw beauty -- my little brain was floored. clearly a life lesson in rock form. in fact, i had rather uncanny luck at finding things in that virginia backyard -- a bit of petrified wood, several arrowheads, a fossilized bird footprint -- and once, a little bird who fell from his nest, who we nursed back to health in a shoebox. i think a bit of magic actually lived in that place.
so, while we were in texas this last week -- in a fudge shop no less -- robbie bought me this crack-your-own geode. i saw the bucket of them and my eyes widened and it was like, yes, this, right here, right now, this is it. i've arrived. ok, and if you know one thing about me, know this: i'm obsessed with history. with people's histories, their family's histories, the little stories that make them who they are. robbie can attest to this -- on long drives or while falling asleep, i'll bombard him with questions -- what did your grandparents farm? tell me again how your parents met? what's one food you refused to eat growing up? tell me one thing you remember about the spring when you were young? and so when i stumble upon an artifact that so keenly reignites a childhood memory -- i'm off the wall. i'm spitting out stories, and begging you to please tell me yours. i live for these moments.
because robert and i have been together since 2005 (just wee babies in high school!), we have so many trinkets and tokens we've collected over the years. things that remind us of different road trips and hospital visits and humble adventures, and a million unclassifiable moments. when i walk through our home, every corner seems to hold something, and each little something seems to hold its own story that, in some way, is about us -- little indelible tokens of what it means to be him & me.
objects are so funny in that way, you know? how they pull you back or propel you forward, how they whisper stories -- long washed away in the sea of memory -- that you shout back into the conscious universe. you share them with someone. they live again.