photo #8905134

My husband collected rocks. Every single place we traveled for 38 years he'd pick up a stone and put it in his pocket. I used to get so annoyed, finding them in the washing machine, weighing down his coat pockets, piled on his nightstand. He said each one held a memory. I said they held dirt. He passed in November. Heart attack at 64 in our kitchen while I was upstairs folding laundry. I heard him fall but I thought he dropped something. By the time I came down he was gone. I couldn't save him. I couldn't even say goodbye. For months I didn't know what to do with all those rocks. Boxes of them in the garage, bags in the closet, stones from beaches and mountains and parking lots of diners where we stopped for coffee. My daughter said to throw them out. My son wanted to scatter them somewhere meaningful. I couldn't do either. Then I saw this woman on a shop who builds dry stack stone sculptures in her garden. No mortar, just balance and patience. I messaged her and asked if she could teach me. She sent me tutorials and encouraged me for weeks. This spring I finally built this, a beehive cairn using every single rock my husband ever collected. It took me four months. My hands bled. My back ached. Some days I'd place one stone and then sit in the dirt crying for an hour. But it's done now. The daffodils are coming up around it like they know something sacred lives here. I planted them with bulbs I bought from a gardener on a shop who specializes in memorial gardens. She included a handwritten note that made me sob. People keep asking me what this structure is and I tell them it's 38 years of love, stacked one memory at a time. He would've hated how long it took me to appreciate those rocks. I wish I'd told him sooner that I understood. Credit - Martha Barker