Ripples of Magic
My light sweater billowed out behind me like a cape. No, I was never a superhero, but I can see the superhero powers of others. Everyone has one, and the best ones are rarely noticed by anyone except me, because that’s my superpower. It’s a pretty pathetic power if you ask me, but recently it became evident as to how important my own power is.
It was mid March of 2020. Yeah, the 2020 that will never be forgotten. Just at the beginning of the call for social distancing, just before the governor shut down Sin City and the rest of the state, just when “flattening the curve” became part of our shared consciousness.
On my daily walk, a new routine since my other avenues of exercise were cut off, I found a new path. A magical little path, it wound between the homes of one subdivision and the next. Shady, and paved, it was quiet with only a few of us out at that time of day, the time just before dusk settled over the valley. Social distancing wasn’t a problem since few were around.
I spotted the first one while listening to my first audiobook. The book narrator droned in my ear with her urgent suspenseful questioning of what happened to her husband, interwoven with long streams of flashbacks that had me mentally growling with frustration. Get to the point! You may be thinking just the same thing in my own narration about this time, but this frame of mind is what made spotting the little painted stone so delightful. It was painted like a little ladybug, red with black spots, and lay among the other plain stones calling attention to itself.
See me! Notice me! It called out. No, not literally, but it might as well have. I stopped and stared. Who had put it there? Why? Questions filled my head, but I rather liked not knowing the answers. Magic lives in the unknowing.
Smiling, I continued my walk, my steps bouncing a bit more.
The following day, there were two stones. The ladybug was still there. Seeing it again uplifted me. I’d expected it to be taken by someone. A few yards down the path, a second stone glittered with metallic blue and gold paints in a swirling abstract pattern. My audiobook still droned, as the main character made mountains out of molehills, repeating the same questions and accusations.
By the seventh day, there were loads of painted stones each spread apart from the others. Some had little faces on them, an owl, a simple smiley face while others had words, peace, smile, be happy, and still others were abstract swirls and designs.
The same questions popped to my mind each time, who was doing this? Not unlike my reaction to the audiobook. Who did it? Why? And why was I still listening to this irritating thing? The stones never irritated me. They were little gifts in my day.
The day I spotted the largest stone was almost two weeks from the first day. And that is also the day I discovered the painter of the rocks, or should I say painters?
I finally finished the audiobook that left me wondering why I’d bothered listening until the end. The husband wasn’t murdered at all. He had a car accident, like people do, even my father.
My walks had turned into a have-to rather than a want-to. I had to get out of the house, get some movement. By this time rather than looking forward to my outings, I was dreading them. What if someone approached too close and I got infected? There were reports of people being attacked because certain others had set themselves up as vigilantes to enforce the stay at home orders. Being outside on the path wasn’t against the law, at least not yet.
Still, I persisted and dragged myself out every day. The reward of seeing even more stones brightened the grayest of days.
The day I spotted the largest stone my steps were heavy, slow. Isolation was getting to me. People wore masks now — all of them, not just a few. No smiles greeted me, and people kept their heads down, me included.
I almost turned around and headed for home five minutes into my excursion that day when I spotted it. The largest stone was also the ugliest. Not that any artistic effort is ugly. To each his own, right? But this stone was a blob of dark colors, gray, brown, and dark green, and in fact, it took me a moment to recognize it as another painted rock as I thought it was just a stone with some water marks and cracks running through it. Its placement at the fork of a tree trunk, marked it as special and yes, it was a painted rock. It matched my mood.
I bent over and stepped toward it, and that is when I saw him. He was grinning ear-to-ear and peering through the fence of his backyard through the profuse yellow climbing rose vines. He was probably thirteen or fourteen — a young boy with the flat wide face and almond shaped eyes characteristic of a child with Downs Syndrome. He giggled and put a chubby hand over his mouth to stifle it.
“Is that yours?” I asked, pointing to the rock resting in the tree trunk.
He nodded enthusiastically.
“Wow! Why did you make it?” Maybe I would have some answers.
“I like it,” he whispered loudly, unable to stop his laughter.
His joy was contagious and I looked at the rock again, closer. Hidden within the cracks and blobs of paint, an expressionless face appeared as if it was hiding for only the most perseverant to see. A gift.
“Who did you paint?”
“The tree man. Him.” He grinned up at the tree separating us. “He says he’s not ugly.”
“He’s a lovely tree.”
“They chopped off his arms last month. He was hurt. That’s why he’s not smiling. The man hurt him.”
“What’s your name?” I asked, charmed by the young man’s imagination. I studied the tree and sure enough spotted the scars of missing tree limbs and branches.
“Matthew,” he responded though the h was silent in his pronunciation.
“Why did you paint a rock?”
“The tree wanted it.”
A woman came up behind him. “Matty, who are you talking to?” She was a little younger than me, with her hair bunched up on her head in a messy bun. Dressed in her sweats and an oversized t-shirt, and slippers — our new uniforms.
“A tree lady.”
I laughed. “Is this your mother?”
He nodded.
I introduced myself to her. “I’m not a tree lady, but I’d love to be. It sounds like a wonderful person, especially if you get to hang around Matthew.” I looked up the path. “Funny, I’ve lived over on the next street for ages, and never took this path until the lockdown. I’ve been curious about the painted rocks. “
“Aren’t they the best? I have no idea who started them, but — “ She stopped closed her eyes and took a deep breath, struggling to hold back tears. “We needed them. It’s just Matty and I, and since school’s been closed.” She touched Matty’s shoulder. “He doesn’t understand why he can’t go to school, but — “
“I can imagine. In another lifetime, I was a teacher. It isn’t easy.”
“You’re a teacher?” Matty asked.
“Not anymore, but I used to teach boys and girls about your age.”
Matty got quiet then and sidled to his mother.
“He’s usually not this talkative. In fact, I’m surprised he spoke to you,” Matthew’s mother said.
“I saw him while I was looking at the stone he painted.”
She pressed her lips together and a tear slid down her cheek. “There’s magic in the stones. He wasn’t doing anything. I tried to work with him on his schoolwork, but he just wanted to sleep, lay on the couch — not even interested in playing games. So unlike him. I even had to force him to go on a bike ride with me.” Her hand cupped Matty’s round face. “You always loved your bike rides. You’d beg me to go on them. I know you were scared. But when you wouldn’t do anything or go anywhere, that scared me.”
“Until you saw the stones. Is that when things changed?” I asked.
“Yes.” She kept her focus on her son. “He bugged me to give him paint and he spent a whole afternoon choosing his rock to paint.”
“It was the tree’s rock.” Matty hugged his mother.
“Will you go inside, Matty?” His mother pulled him close before moving away. “I’ll be in shortly. Go wash your hands. Sing your song.”
Matty ran to their sliding glass door, but turned to wave before going in the house. “Bye Tree Lady.”
“Bye Matthew! Thank you for the Tree Man rock. It made my day,” I told him. “Do you happen to know who painted the ladybug, the first stone?”
She smiled softly. “Does it matter?”
“You?” Though she never acknowledged my guess, my secret superpower spoke loudly. “Your love for him has spread through the neighborhood, helped a lot of people. I want you to know that. It’s a superpower. The ripples of magic you created are still traveling.”
With that statement, something shifted inside me and I knew I hadn’t lost my own self in this dark time. I’d found a light. We’d make it through. My superpower might be rather pathetic, but saving oneself often takes the most strength.
THE END
