I never collected rocks, but I knew plenty of children who did, and I wonder where those collections are now. I wonder if they lie arranged in cardboard boxes, tuck under beds, patiently waiting to be returned to the ground. Stones are confident in that way, in a way I am not; they know where they came from, and they know where they are headed. There is no end for them, just a slow, steady smoothing of rough edges, a mellowing by age and time.