One Rock

ONE ROCK

By Wanda Bush

He sat on the rickety porch stoop and stared into the woods surrounding the old home place. One hundred acres of loneliness glared back at the twelve-year-old boy. Though spring had arrived, winter remained in his soul. With head bent and shoulders slumped, he fiddled with a slingshot found in his uncle’s shed. Stretching the rubber back and forth, energizing emotions held deep within.

After practicing with air as ammunition, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a few rocks. He looked in his hand and saw he retrieved three. “Why three rocks?” he voiced aloud in anger, for the number three haunted him. There had been three in his family before the accident killed his parents six months prior, three before he had been left alone. Hadn’t his mother told him three was a sacred number? He looked toward the sky and yelled, “Three minus two is one! One!” His incessant frown deepened as his head drooped and shook side to side.

Given no choice, a court mandate forced the boy to move out here where time stood still. Here where silence tormented his mind as there was no distraction for his thoughts. Here where no one existed except an elderly aunt and uncle who were presently away worshipping their God. His kin did their best to make him a part of their family, yet he felt the threesome of this union was fake, not real, not a family. He decided he loved the number one—the loneliest number—his true number.

He put a rock in the sling, aimed left toward a large oak tree, and shot. The ancient timber was too far away to strike. He fired at a closer target, a young sapling. Hit! Probably a son of the old oak tree. His sights turned to a grove of trees beyond a patch of worn weeds his aunt and uncle referred to as the backyard. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved more rocks and set them on the stoop. Aimlessly, he shot into the trees, but as his tormented memory recounted the accident, his spirit swelled with wild rage, building into a storm.

Rock after rock pelted the timber as his rounds became faster and faster, his anger building into a storm. Tears sheeted his eyes, blinding him. His knuckles whitened as he shook the slingshot before him, shouting into the woodlands. “Oh God, if there be a God, why did you let the accident happen? Why did you leave me alone? Why here, among the mildew of leaves, mildew of decay, mildew of old things? Why did you leave me?” He shot again.

A faint rustling sound caused the boy to freeze. His eyes honed in on a blanket of leaves that bedded beneath the trees. He rubbed his eyes and stared into the spent, deteriorated, lifeless blotch and saw nothing. He stood and eased himself into a fighting stance, putting another rock into the slingshot’s cradle, pulling the rubber taut, searching for anything that moved.

He slowly descended the rough, wooden steps, keeping his weapon ready as he made his way to the hardwood trees. Nothing would catch him off guard. No more surprises ever again. He kept his sights on the pile of decomposing leaves that were sure to hide danger, perhaps a snake. When he reached the heap of decay, he lowered the slingshot and secured it in his left hand. He picked up a long, thick stick with his right hand and cautiously moved the dark brown, damp, moldy clump aside. He gasped and jerked back. Everything in his hands fell to the ground. Just beyond the heap, a female robin with a tiny worm in her beak took her last breath, surrendering her food offering at the boy’s feet.

Striking both sides of his head, he gripped his hair with his fingers, winced, and yelled, “One shot! One lousy random shot! An accident!” He peered at the bird through blurry eyes and watched the worm wiggle away.

A twig fell on the back of his neck, causing him to glance up into the branches of a small tree. A nest. He wiped tears away with his shirt sleeve as he internally struggled with taking a peek into the homestead made up of neatly jumbled twigs.

A log decaying under the tree caught the boy’s attention, and he stepped up onto it, grabbing small boughs to steady his balance. Rising on tiptoes, he peered inside the nest. Three baby birds bunched together slept peacefully next to an unhatched cyan-blue egg. Robins!

He sprang off the log and picked up his slingshot. Taking a rock out of his pocket, he planted his feet securely and readied the weapon, pointing it at the crib. It’s better to do away with the entire family—no one left behind—no one forced to endure the pain of survival.

A large mosquito landed on his wrist. He dropped his rock, slapped the nuisance, and snarled, “If you birds would do your job, there’d be no mosquitoes out here.” He dug into his pocket for another rock and, in haste, aimed at the nest again.

He looked hard as he determined where to place the stone to end all suffering before it began. Seeing a little movement within the tangled twigs, he lowered the slingshot and jumped back upon the log to look inside the nest. The three innocent baby birds stretched their necks and bounced with their mouths wide open. They didn’t understand their momma was gone, never to return. They didn’t understand that life was full of tragic accidents. They didn’t understand they could never survive alone.

He stepped off the log and sat on a stump across from the nest. The heels of his shoes trenched the ground as he replayed the calamity in his mind. His heart raced as two random accidents interweaved within his inner vision, causing sorrow to overtake his soul. With miserable force, he repeatedly pounded the slingshot against his thigh. His spirit moaned as he squeezed the bridge of his nose, whacking away faster and faster, harder and harder, embracing the pain he felt deserved, until the slingshot snapped in two. He threw the weapon to the ground, and in agony, he clenched his fists, shook them towards the heavens, and wailed. “Why, oh why, God?” He slammed his forearms to his knees and drove his face into his fists. Over and over, he knocked his head while sobbing.

Out in the lonely woods, the wildlife became mournfully still. The boy raised his head and observed the moment. The boy saw nothing. The boy heard nothing. Tears rolled down his face as he sat suffering in the silence, waiting for an answer.

In the stillness, one lonesome bird chirped in the distance, then two, then three. Suddenly, a chorus of trills and warbles created beautiful music. Colorful feathers began to flitter and flutter from branch to branch as life continued onward.

Slowly, the young man rose. He walked to his uncle’s shed and retrieved a shovel—to bury the past and dig for worms.

Psalm 34:18

The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.