The Promise

People wondered what he was doing. They came - walking their dogs or their children - and always he would be sitting there. He never talked to anyone - and no one ever talked to him. He sat, every day, on the beach, touching the stones, maybe picking them up or turning them around. A bit further down each day but only by inches. He never took one home. If he had a home. They didn't know. He was old, they knew that. He's face was all wrinkled and deeply tanned. He wore old clothes, things that had probably never been in fashion at any time and now worn to a sheen. And then one day someone spoke to him. She was maybe 6. A small girl with curly hair and curious eyes. 'What are you doing?' she asked. 'What do you do with the stones?' He slowly turned to look at her. 'I appreciate' he said quietly, almost in a whisper. 'I look at all the stones, notice the colour, feel how smooth they are.' He took another one and caressed it gently. 'Why?' she said. 'Aren't they pretty?' he asked. They were. 'And look, they're all different' he pointed at a few of them. 'All different'. Still, she didn't understand. He turned to her again, 'I promised God that I would look at his creation and truly appreciate' he said. 'And these stones are all beautiful'. He paused. 'I have looked at trees, too. They're even more different. Only, that was a long time ago'. He looked to the sea. 'Maybe I'll watch the waves one day'. 'Are the waves different too?' she asked. He smiled for the first time in .. ages probably. 'Yes' he said. 'All different'. And the girl laughed happily and ran off. He sat still for a while, the surprise of hearing his own voice settling slowly. He had promised God all those years ago. Promised that at least he, if no one else, would appreciate creation, take the care to notice, the time to wonder. And he went on, turning the stones, seeing that they were all different, all beautiful.