The shape of the stone nestles into the palm of my
hand; its smooth contours a reminder of its island origins, twelve miles off
the coast of Maine. Plucked from the many along the shores of Pebble Beach,
this stone has become my garlic rock. You might confuse the stone for a quail's
egg, until with a casual flick of my wrist, it smashes down upon a garlic claw,
crushing the clove, shedding its paper white skin. This stone does not yield
under my weight. Instead, it is the clove that splinters often
leaving greasy traces upon its porous surface. Speckled egg. Unbreakable. The
garlic takes on a new form as it mixes with coarse salt on the scarred wooden
board; I rub the two textures together, becoming something entirely unto itself.
First destruction, then creation, my stone marks the boundaries of what begins,
and what too shall end.