Basalt

She’d mail me rocks. Igneous were her favourite.

The postman yelled at me one morning as he threw her latest discovery, a glassy, palm-sized stone with half-dozen stamps taped to its widest face, on my steps. I gave him an awkward, apologetic smile and brought it in. The tape left a sticky residue, so I left it soaking in the sink.

She was somewhere in Eastern Europe. Austria or Estonia or something like that. I was at home. Looking for work. And not finding much.

After scrubbing, I placed it on the dinner table, in a pile with the others.

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