Paperweight

Every few months or so, I turn into a rock. First, my joints stiffen as if there’s weather coming. Then, I get the urge to read some doorstop novel. Finally, I become a rock. A smallish one, usually. My wife isn’t surprised anymore. She picks me up from the kitchen floor or the driveway and sets me on her desk as a paperweight. It’s nice to have a singular purpose. I’m glad I don’t become a brick or, God forbid, a stone. When I’m a rock, I appreciate so many things I don’t otherwise notice. Silence so intricate it sounds like music. A breeze moving through the room like a dancer stretching her limbs. Eventually, after a few days or weeks, I become a person again. I go back to reading my book; I spend the weekend cleaning leaves from the gutters. But at night, when my wife is asleep, I sneak downstairs and set my hand atop a stack of mail. I wait there, as still as possible, until sunrise. I don’t want to lose my touch.