The pocket stone

Before the trousers go into the wash, a hand goes into the pocket and comes out holding a stone.

Grey now. At the water it was green, or nearly green, and worth bending down for.

The person at the washing machine turns it over with a thumb.

There was a walk. There was a place to sit. Someone said they ought to head back and neither stood up.

None of that is visible on the stone.

If it were mine to catalogue, I would have the weight, the colour, the little white line that goes almost all the way around.

I would not have the reason it travelled.

It sits on the washing machine through the towels, through the shirts, through a week of being lifted so the lid can open.

Then it moves to the windowsill, beside a key that may still fit something.

In the morning someone watering the plant spills a little water on it.

Green.