It had a nice corner window ,the sitting room of our apartment, set back from city rabble,over harbor and wee park, a pleasant view. We propped up my turquoise chair, saggy now with age and wear, and I wrote Godfrey’s story from there.
Many an hour I spent looking out that window, to a sloping patch of grass between posh hotel and float plane dock. I developed the habit at close of eve or dawn, sitting quiet as Godfrey did in times alone. Looking out to the rock jutting out over harbors edge- my worry stone.
It formed a natural seat, sheltered from the wind and street, unseen I could look down from my warm home. I saw a lot of humanity and wondered at the pathways, that led them to the harbor’s edge, and my worry stone.
At times of celebration the stone was a front row seat, like the fireworks on summer nights and at New Year, and once my dear husband got me out of the loo, to point out three well dressed, little old ladies like me drinking beer.
..But mostly sitting on the stone, are those deep in thought and the beaten down. I observe from high above in my place,there is a worry stone…amid the city , for all to sit, it is a peaceful place, my worry stone.