When I was young I skipped rocks across Emerald Lake. Or I tried to. My too skinny arms and inherent clumsiness often sent me careening toward the depths of the murky water. I emerged soaked, algae covered and still griping Lime, my green rag doll.

My cousins, on the other hand, made the rocks jump four, five or even six times. The pampered pre-prepubescents lived in a gated community with a manmade lake to practice on. My brother needed no such luxuries. He excelled at everything, rock skipping included. He hardly needed to glance at the water before his stones flew across seven times. I pouted and instead tried to make the biggest splash. As I watched the showers of water produce diamond water droplets, I decided I didn’t care

Five minutes later I cared.

And my cousins, after much pleading, told me two things:

1) It was in the stones.

2) I looked stupid carrying a doll.

So that fall, winter and spring I searched for the smoothest, roundest, flattest stones and buried Lime deep my mother’s old clothes.

When I returned to the Emerald Lake I threw a stone and it went

skip,

skip.

I let out a squeal, tried again and watched

skip,

skip,

skip!

Three times!

I raised my hands in joy and the sleeves of my oversized T-shirt billowed triumphantly in the wind. I turned to my brother, revelry and pride on my face, saw him smile, and then saw his misshapen, imperfect and craggy rock dance eight times across the water. A new record. My sleeves fell flat at my sides.

This time I took my brother’s advice:

A) Work on technique.

B) Lose the doll.

I trained my arms and wrists so I could best my brother and younger (yes younger) cousins. I put Lime in the Goodwill box. That summer I returned to Emerald Lake with strong hands and wrists, but they worked opposite, drew out sweat on my forehead and heat in my voice. When the sun began to set and the mosquitoes began to bite, I hurled all my stones into the lake. One bounced off a rock, landed behind me and made a splash. Confused, I turned.

The river fed the lake steadily and the clear waters made its riverbed rocks shine like gemstones. Tentatively, I placed one foot in, felt the strong current and could suddenly imagine the power and white waves beyond the bend.

I followed the riverbank (for I saw no path) and shed my clothes (for I saw no need). The water clouded and the shore muddied. My feet grew sore and my shoes fell off and the sun turned my small, white breasts pink, then brown. My hair grayed, my hands cracked and I looked at nothing but the mud beneath my feet. Either forty or five hundred years later I finally sat down. As I studied my bloodied toes and massaged my swollen joints, I heard the ocean.

Foot over foot, hand over hand, I sprinted across the gritty, cold dunes and saw my ocean with loud, crashing waves, full of legend and myth and seawater. It inspired my limp legs and disintegrating calves. My limbs moved faster. They began to blur. As my foot traced pieces of half-broken shells, as my ears embraced the caws of the seagulls, as my fingertips dreamed of the touch of a cold sea, as my lungs inhaled the sweet flavor of brine and seaweed-

I fell.

stumbled on drift wood or fishing pole sand scrapped my face my left arm bled broken sea shells my shins harsh with broken bones brine and seaweed stung my eyes my chest convulsed i didn’t want cold sea i wanted rag doll i reached and my fingers found the softness of sweet cotton and i looked and instead i saw

dirt

forced into the sand a million years ago.

I threw the clot violently above me and waited for the pieces to rain down on my hands

and hair.

I waited.

I felt no dirt.

For the first time in along time,

I looked up.

I saw my chunk of dirt clot, imperfect pieces of earth and stone, catch itself in green starlight and skip nine times across the sky.