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  • When I was a child, it was solid cement. Table for picnics. Mooring for boats. From the water, it marked the point on the shore that was home.

    Decades of tides, of storms have come, gone. Now, I visit it like an old and feeble relative, still sitting on the beach. Bearer of memories, barely recognizable in its old age-- angled oddly, no longer strong.

    But still, it has witnessed so many moods of mine: running down to the river in a tear of teenage fury to hurl stones in the water. Another year: home from college, it was the place I walked a boy to kiss him by moonlight. Another year: trying to sort out my heart over leaving a job, it was the rock I sat on, to contemplate. It has born consolation and rock-skipping joy.

    And so, when the last pieces of it break off into the water, I'll mourn it like it was something far more animate than a block of cement.
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