The river danced over rocks and ridges-- shallow with sunlight reflecting off the tumbled stones that always made walking in it a challenge. But we did anyway, collecting my favorite smooth, round ones. I used to line my window sills with parades of whitened rocks. Always knew exactly which came from where. Up on the mountain, we'd skip stones disrupting our lake's glassy, cloud-mirroring surface. The ducks would skitter and the geese would complain, but we did it anyway. He'd skip those stones dozens of times; mine splashed and sank. Older now, he'd be on the road lighting the stages for Geils or Jett. I'd sit, out of the way, up on the lighting platform, watching as he'd make blues and magentas dance while the sound and lighting crew passed joints from one to another. I got stoned the first time at a J. Geils concert; he and I blatantly ignored the other as the joints danced hand to hand. I remember the lights blurring, the crowd swaying to the music far below me and knowing our folks would kill me if they knew. I did it anyway. There was an article in Rolling Stone about my brother in the mid-seventies. They talked of his being stoned more often than not, one just was, I suppose. Mom didn't know what being stoned meant. I knew I shouldn't lie but I did anyway. He was my brother. After he passed, I had his ashes made into stones. Like river rock, smooth and white. It's been suggested that saying he'd have loved it as he spent most of his life stoned, was in poor taste. I can hear him laughing. So glad I did it anyway. |