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I never felt it leave my hands. Its smooth white surface had caressed my cheek many times, its flat perfection the result of the wearing away of the river current. My Daddy gave me that stone. He put it in my little hands, a gift from him, a piece of his love. I never got to see what it looked like before he entrusted it to me. I didn’t experience the trial that produced its beauty; I was spared the river that made it so perfectly flat, so smooth and flawless. But I dropped it. Somehow, running barefoot through the grass, I lost my precious stone.
“Shut off the mower!” I pleaded through tears of panic to the neighbor nearby. “Help me!”
I searched alone for hours, crawling in the backyard. By evening, as I heard Dad’s car pulling up and felt the soft glow of the headlights, I was certain it was lost. How disappointed he would be in me! Something so irreplaceable, an extension of his love, and I had lost it.
As he stepped out of the car, I threw myself into his arms, begging his forgiveness for having lost the flat stone, expressing my devastation at its absence. Reaching into his pocket, Daddy withdrew the stone. Its seamless surface shone in the gentle light. He wiped my eyes and lifted me with his great arms.
“You didn’t lose the stone,” he whispered. “You forgot it in the car this morning, so I kept it for you.”
I felt myself relax in his strength as he carried me into the house, placing the flat stone back into his pocket.
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