I am so excited to be featured on Mamalode today!
I wrote a version of this story to share at Robb’s grandparents’ memorial service, so it’s close to my heart. This a picture from our own collection of magical rocks.
I met my husband’s Grandparents when I was 19. As we left their 100-year-old farm house, Grandpa John walked over to a drawer in their kitchen, dug around a bit and then took something out and put it in my hand.
He said, “Travel safe.” He patted my hand and his blue eyes twinkled at me, bursting with the Irish charm that only a man who was born on St. Patrick’s day can have.
I looked down at the small nondescript rock that he had handed me and noticed the hole that went all the way through it. I nodded at him like I knew exactly what the rock meant, but at that time, I didn’t. Not really.
Sixteen years go by. Two nurses are helping me as I stand for the first time after giving birth to my daughter. I am as worn out and wobbly as a new colt. One nurse starts to clean up my sheets when something hard falls onto the floor and she bends over to pick it up.
“Is this yours?”