Little Friends

Frances collects little white stones that sit waiting for her in the grass behind the restaurant while I sit at a table inside checking email, watching her through the glass. She carefully puts them in the pockets of her blue rain jacket. Every time I check on her through the window I see her dancing around the area where all the stones are, singing and talking to herself and then picking up more. When we get home and out of the car she asks me to zip up her pockets which are both jammed full. “Hold on,” I say as I put the keys and cups and trash in my hands on top of the car so I can help her. When I turn around she is already halfway to the cabin. She is running her fastest and I watch the little white stones drop to the ground behind her with every step. Something is pulling her to the house and she has already forgotten them. Later, when we are walking back to the car, I point out the white stones laying in the grass where she dropped them. She looks at me like she has no idea what I am talking about, and says she has never seen them before. Perhaps to her they never were stones. Maybe they were treasure, or little friends.