The White Stone

I’m not exactly sure where it came from
the small white stone
sitting on a bookshelf.

I believe I brought it home from my mother’s house
after she passed away.

It’s not exactly round
but the edges have been worn smooth
as if it had been tossed in the surf
for ages.

Most likely, it had been brought home
from some summer vacation
to the shore
years ago.

It could have been from anywhere along the eastern seaboard;
Mount Desert Island,
Cape Cod,
The Outer Banks.
These were the destinations of my childhood.

Now, with the seawater dried off
and no sound of the surf
or gulls overhead
it has lost a little of its luster
but none of its meaning.