The Ferryman is stretched out on the dock, hands behind his head, face to the sky. The river sings softly, laps the dock, rocks the boat in its moorings. There will be no crossing today.
I turn away, content with the quiet, and settle myself down at a sandy spot with my pocketful of rocks spilled out on the ground before me. I sort and lift and polish.
Today I will not speak at all. Today I will sit with all the bits that I’ve collected. Today I will make something lovely.