My sadness is like a stone. A flat pebble, grey and smooth, in the palm of my hand. Small enough to wrap my fingers around. But there. Hard. And I turn it over and over. Like worry beads. Like faith. Like benediction. But the turning only makes it smoother, more familiar. Until it fits the curve of me like a whisper. There is a solidness to my sadness that is strange and deep and comforting. A solid, grounding weight that makes the return of light a gift. A reminder. My talisman. Held in my hand like a stone.