Pocket Stone

That box of hats,

winter dust thick on the felt.

My fingers, clumsy,

through the wool, the forgotten shapes.

And then,

this.

Cool, dense,

a small planet in my palm.

A river stone.

How long? A year,

maybe more.

It had its place,

a smooth, dark anchor

in the coat,

the one with the ripped lining.

Always there,

a quiet weight,

a secret ballast.

My thumb knew its curve,

the faint, almost invisible vein,

a white scar in the dark.

It held no answers,

just the shape of a year,

worn smooth by daily friction.

And now,

just a ghost of its warmth.

A familiar chill.