It had been so many...
Illustration
It had been so many years since the incident, Silvia had lost count; it was something
beyond forty -- a lifetime ago, actually. But the incident itself was etched in her memory,
not because she particularly wanted to recall it, but because she had no choice. It wouldn't
go away; she couldn't forget. Third grade? Fourth grade? She had been young -- but old
enough to know better. She was a member of a service club that met after school, a club
that valued honor. They had gone on a field trip to a lapidary shop. Silvia had been
enthralled! Brightly polished stones in all shapes and sizes glittered everywhere.
She had been fascinated with rocks for as much of her young life as memory let her grasp; but these were so bright, so shiny. So unattainable for her, coming as she did from a family that lived on the margins of the American economy. She had not been brought up to steal. Even though her family was poor, she had been taught the importance of not taking that which wasn't hers. But there had been so many stones, all in neat rows of little white boxes, arranged by color and size. How would the proprietor ever miss one or two? Almost its own volition, her hand darted into the nearest box. Suddenly she was conscious of the smooth, polished coolness in her pocket, as her heart raced from a rush of adrenaline. The rest of the shop tour was a blur for Silvia.
When the club members emerged, she realized she had five or six hard, silky-surfaced stones hidden beneath the hand in her pocket. That fact struck her simultaneously with fear. What if someone discovered her awful crime? She'd be thrown out of the club. And the humiliation would be more than she could bear! What could she do? As soon as the group returned to her school, Silvia excused herself and raced home. Silently she crept to her room and found a small, white box, quite similar to those at the lapidary shop. Silvia placed the small beautiful stones on a bed of cotton in the box, put on the lid, and hid it beneath her clothes in a drawer.
As the ensuing years passed, she periodically stumbled across the box and recalled the fear and shame that assailed her the day she had taken the stones. The terrible irony of their hidden beauty was not lost on her either: She possessed the stones she had coveted, but she could never show them to a living soul without having to reveal the terrible story of how they came into her possession. These small rocks, taken in a moment of passion, were a continual reminder of the awful price one pays by taking that to which one is not entitled.
She had been fascinated with rocks for as much of her young life as memory let her grasp; but these were so bright, so shiny. So unattainable for her, coming as she did from a family that lived on the margins of the American economy. She had not been brought up to steal. Even though her family was poor, she had been taught the importance of not taking that which wasn't hers. But there had been so many stones, all in neat rows of little white boxes, arranged by color and size. How would the proprietor ever miss one or two? Almost its own volition, her hand darted into the nearest box. Suddenly she was conscious of the smooth, polished coolness in her pocket, as her heart raced from a rush of adrenaline. The rest of the shop tour was a blur for Silvia.
When the club members emerged, she realized she had five or six hard, silky-surfaced stones hidden beneath the hand in her pocket. That fact struck her simultaneously with fear. What if someone discovered her awful crime? She'd be thrown out of the club. And the humiliation would be more than she could bear! What could she do? As soon as the group returned to her school, Silvia excused herself and raced home. Silently she crept to her room and found a small, white box, quite similar to those at the lapidary shop. Silvia placed the small beautiful stones on a bed of cotton in the box, put on the lid, and hid it beneath her clothes in a drawer.
As the ensuing years passed, she periodically stumbled across the box and recalled the fear and shame that assailed her the day she had taken the stones. The terrible irony of their hidden beauty was not lost on her either: She possessed the stones she had coveted, but she could never show them to a living soul without having to reveal the terrible story of how they came into her possession. These small rocks, taken in a moment of passion, were a continual reminder of the awful price one pays by taking that to which one is not entitled.
