I’ve had a tiny pebble in my shoe all day
I’ve had a tiny pebble in my shoe all day. It has annoyed me since ten o’clock this morning. And yet I only just took it out. The pebble has wounded my foot. Just like the thought that next time I visit the home where I grew up, Mum may not recognise me, wounds my heart. It shifts around, sometimes it hobbles me, sometimes I feel it less, but it is always there. It is the price I pay, every day, for choosing to be bold and pioneering, back when home was boring and parents indestructible.
I sit here alone in my flat now, holding the minuscule monolith in my palm, sobbing a bit. I love this pebble. I brought it from a beach in Mykonos all the way to South Bermondsey. You should have seen how breezily I marched through the “Nothing To Declare” aisle, knowing that in my shoe I carried a tiny piece of smuggled salted sunshine.
If it weren’t a thoroughly irrational thing to do, I’d put it right back in my shoe tomorrow morning.