From Pavement Stars to Palmed Lines

The small hard stars scattered on the cracked pavement. Each point a tiny sun, a miniature challenge waiting for a flick of the wrist, a calculated bounce. We knelt, children then, intent on our small universe, the satisfying clink against the unforgiving gray. Loss was a sting, a momentary eclipse of our focused world. But the game held us, a primal geometry of hand and eye, of anticipation and release. Each throw, a small decision, a negotiation with gravity, a fleeting mastery. Now, the memory surfaces, unbidden, unexpected. Those sharp-edged stars, no longer a game. They are the decisions we've fumbled, the opportunities we've dropped, the small victories, hard-won, that shaped the lines on our palms, the way we navigate the larger, more complex jackstones of our lives. Do we still see the points, the potential in each facet? Or have they blurred into the smooth, worn stones of regret or resignation? The clink echoes still, a faint reminder of the simple rules, the focused intent, the endless possibilities held in the palm of a child's hand. ©bfa041825