A Stone's Worth

A Stone’s Worth

I am standing in the doorway of Grandpa's shed, a rickety structure barely clinging to its four legs. It’s sweltering summer midday, though you wouldn’t know it from the inside with the single rhombus window Grandpa nearly nailed shut some winters ago. 

A chilly gust sweeps over the chipped floor tiles and lifts me with it. I float in the bubbly air, by the long burned-out corner bulb, past the bronze water tap that hasn’t run for months. 

Above Grandpa’s desk hangs a dark wood shelf, crowded with handwritten remedies, battle schemes, and clever contraptions, crafted by weary soldiers on their rare days off the trenches. Like this pocket watch that could tell the time and everyone’s location, or the music box that, when tinkered with just right, played vintage classics—over code-laced frequencies. 

In the cracked mirror piece, next to the shelf, a familiar face catches my eye. I find myself staring at my full rosy cheeks, the light baby hair neatly lining my forehead, and the freckles I’d outgrown years ago. I feel as if looking at an alien. I quickly avert my eyes down.  

A can of red paint sits open on the desk, a wooden brush half-dipped inside. Beside it lies a list of names, surnames, and dates, each scrawled in dark ink, each one crossed out. And in the center, almost as if rising from the desk’s belly, is a pyramid, with a crater for a top. 

It’s a fine build, almost up to my chest, made of flat graphite stones the size of my palm, not glued or nailed together, but rather stacked atop one another: five stones at the bottom, four above the five, three above the four, and two over those three.

A set of calligraphed initials graces each stone. 

One, two, three, four… there were fourteen stones in formation. One, two, three… and fourteen names on the list. What’s all this? What was Grandpa building? 

Had I seen this before? I feel like I had. 

“I wasn’t just building, Aster boy…” Grandpa’s voice, deep and unmistakable, suddenly brushes past my ear. Prickles shoot up my spine, the hairs on my neck rise. The voice fills me whole, then hollows something out in my gut. “I was honoring!”

****

My eyes snap open, my chest lurching off the ground. It feels as if I’ve been hurtled into space and crash-landed back to Earth. Everything feels wrong—orientation is motion sickness and time clings like a fog. I pinch the skin on my forearm, hard, watching the flesh turn from peachy to plum. Damn it. I knew it. Jesus, that’s the seventh time this month. 

I’ve always been an avid dreamer, but ever since Grandpa passed last month, the dreams have returned with a vengeance. Not dreams—a dream. Always the same one, playing out on a loop. Always Grandpa’s shed. Always me as a child. Always with the pyramid there. It strikes me and I can’t tell which way is up. The colors blur into sounds and sounds dissolve into liquid. And when the stupor is impossible to snap out of, pinching my skin is the only cue of reality I can trust.

I pat my bruised arm and lift my foggy head to greet the clean afternoon. The skies are blinding, too intense to take in all at once. I shield my eyes with one hand and prop myself up with the other. The lush trees sway above me, their branches rustling. Fine grains of sand tumble down my back. Cool freshwater laps at my toes, the saltiness clearing my thoughts. I breathe.

Crawling to the water’s edge, I hover over my reflection. I’ve come a long way since kidhood. Moss prickles at my jaw now. My lips look fuller, my eyes wider, my cheeks flatter. I’ve grown a few inches taller, added new muscles to my core. 

I pull back from the emerald rim and crash onto the sand. 

“Simon, I swear, you’re better off without that left foot of yours!” Coach Teller yells, snapping me out of my calm. His voice barrels through the air, clean even from half a mile away. 

“Tony, if you don’t learn to pass properly, I’ll sign you up for ballet class next summer!”

I laugh out loud, my elbows propped on my knees. 

“Jerry, get Aster here, stat!” Teller’s voice rings out. “And don’t give me that ‘he’s not there, sir’ crap, or I’ll have you scrubbing gunk off our socks ’til sunrise!”

Oh, now he’s pissed. Playing dumb during summer camp might usually get you by. But pulling tricks during soccer practice would have any of us boys’ heads on a spear.

“Aster, what are you doing? Let’s go!” my buddy Jerry calls, somewhere behind me, up the narrow beach. I jump, disoriented. His voice rings familiar, but something about it throws me—lower, seasoned, not quite like Jerry. Is it my fragile after-dream state messing with my head? I can’t really say.

“Shit, wait!” I yell, bolting after him, into the thick forest patch between the beach and the soccer stadium, the quickest way to get around. Jerry’s silhouette darts between the trees, slipping in and out of sight. 

“Wait up, man!” I shout, but it’s no use; he stays ahead, his figure vanishing deeper into the forest folds. I pause, squinting to make him out, but the tree lines around me feel darker, almost impenetrable. It’s Jerry. Is it Jerry? For a moment, I forget all about soccer practice. 

“Here, Aster boy!” The call comes from my right, unmistakable. I know that voice, that calling. I know who calls me Aster boy, it’s not Jerry. The hairs on my neck prickle. A shiver shakes me. My hand moves automatically to pinch my forearm. Am I dreaming again? 

Come on, bruise. What’s happening? Am I going insane? This can’t be real. 

A rough palm lands on my shoulder, yanking me backward.

“Aster! What are you doing?” I spin around, my heart hammering, and find Jerry. He’s in the flesh, pacing in his dusty soccer shorts, clueless and sweaty, with his voice as boyishly fresh as always.

“Let’s go, Teller’s pissed!” He gives me a look, cocks an eyebrow, and flashes a race-you-there grin at my wide-eyed stare. Then he does his Jerry thing where he spins on his heel and sprints toward the stadium. And I do my Aster thing where I follow in his footsteps, trying my best not to look back or think about it.

****

Soccer practice came and went unsanctioned and uneventful. I ice the latest bruise on my arm, loitering around the bench, reluctantly picking up agility props and folding jerseys, glancing left and right to ensure I’m alone. Everyone else headed for the showers, but I needed a breather. And I need answers. Answers that can mute the voices in my head. That can change the thin fabric of illusion I’ve been huddled under for a month. 

Pulling out my phone, I dial a number.

“The Heston residence,” a small, lacy voice purrs on the other end.

“Grandma,” I cough into the phone. “Hey, how are you? How have you been?”

“Aster, dear! How good to hear from you!” Grandma’s voice radiates warmth. “I’m doing well, holding down the fort.” 

I can picture her standing in the kitchen, leaning against the sink, a towel in her soapy hands, her eyes sharp on whatever deliciousness is cooking in the oven. 

“How’s summer camp, dear? Are you having fun?”

“Um, yeah, all great,” I mutter. “But I need to ask you something.”

“Oh, then ask away, dear,” she encourages.

I pause, framing my question. “Was Grandpa building a pyramid?” The words sound silly now that I’ve said them out loud. Her silence meets me from the other end of the line.

“He was, indeed, my dear,” she replies. “Although, not a pyramid per se… but a cairn.”

The unfamiliar word rolls off her tongue strangely.

“You know Grandpa was a soldier many years ago, yes? Well, during the years he fought, he also made friends. The best of friends. Friends who had seen life like we never have. Friends he could trust his life with. But, war is folly, Aster. It doesn’t spare anyone. It didn’t spare many of Grandpa’s friends. Not everyone came back home like he did.” 

Her voice trembled. “So he decided to build them someplace to belong and be honored. A cairn, dear, like I mentioned, built of as many stones as friends he had lost to the war.” 

A silent tear slips down my cheek. I hadn’t known any of this, not now, not even then.

“It’s his birthday next week, you know,” Grandma adds before we hang up. “You should come by, dear. We’ll have a little celebration. I’ll cook something nice.”

****

I sit cross-legged in Grandma’s satin-mowed yard for the first time since Grandpa left us. The summer dawns a sultry tangerine that makes me think of love. I suddenly felt so warm and at home, I could bring myself to tears.

Fourteen stones, laid out by size and balance, rise from the tilled grass before me. I had moved them out of the shed just this morning–cleared up a nice square patch of grass and all.

The fifteenth stone sits in my lap. Grandpa’s wooded brush, half-dipped and soaked in fresh red paint, moves in my fingers. A thin F and H form wherever the brush touches. The smallest stone goes on top. There, done. Now it’s a cairn. Now Grandpa has someplace to belong and be honored, too. 

I tilt my head toward the kitchen. Grandma’s humming and the warm steam from her baking fill my chest. The scent of peach jam wafts under my nose. I smile at the cairn and whisper, “Happy birthday, Grandpa” then spring to my feet, racing up the hill, through the hallway, and into the kitchen, only thinking about licking that thick spread off those delicate cushion cakes. Only thinking of having the soundest, most dreamless sleep for the first time in a month.