Story Poem, Nr.10 — White Stone

I stared at the failed poem    
lying sprawled between the lines    
of a regular sheet of A4 paper,    
vigorously crossed out in a pique of frustration.    
“Didn’t you know …” she said in a wounded tone “that    
      ‘… death is when someone is calling you    
      and calling you    
      and you no longer turn around to see    
      who it is’ ?    
… So why you staring at me, then?”    
   
I sat silent, dumbfounded for a moment.    
“I’m looking for the White Stone” I replied cautiously    
“the one with its name on it that only the recipient knows,    
that ultimate guarantee of uniqueness, identity and anonymity”.    
“You want to play God?” she queried, lifting her arms towards me.    
I paused … and holding back the tears gave her a big hug.    
“I’m sure we can work this out” I  whispered into her perforated ear.    
She didn’t reply, though I sensed a deep sigh of relief    
as she handed on a precious gift, smiled knowingly, and let go of death.    
   
I picked up my pen again    
kissed the paper gently    
turned it over to the white side    
and wrote slowly.