“Do not pick the wildflowers.”

That’s what the sign read as we made our way through the tunnel of trees and down a dirt road to get to the sandy water. A futile attempt to save the natural beauty lining the path to the lake, worth it nonetheless to ensure I’m not the last to experience that magic.

The second my feet touched the gravel of the parking lot and the cold wind brushed against my face I couldn’t wait to go looking for a special fossil of a rock; the kind with a town named after it.

We hiked our way down through the cold sand, and I felt it squish between my toes as I ventured towards the line of rocks that act as a containment wall; protecting the beach from the erosive waves.

As we arrived, I took off my shoes, enjoying the annoyance of the sharp rocks on my feet before wading into the cold lake and breathing in the tranquility that seemed to live there–turning my focus back to the multitude of rocks on shore that were waiting for me to sift through.

The feeling of the cold, wet rocks sliding through my hands was grounding. As they slipped through my fingers, my worries seemed to go with them, being caught by the lake in a way that they can never hurt me again.

I started filling my hands with all sorts of rocks that caught my attention: rocks that reminded me of my friends, petoskey stones, old fossils, and pretty rocks that my brother found for me. And after a couple minutes, my hands were full and without pockets—a poor choice of wardrobe on my part—I started putting rocks in my dad’s pockets and having him cart around my hand fulls of rocks.

At one point, I ran back to the car and found a red Solo cup to hold all the beautiful treasures I had discovered.

After our vacation had ended, I brought the filled to the brim solo cup home and dumped out all the rocks on my bathroom counter before rinsing each of them carefully and patting them dry with the hopes of giving them to my friends.

I put a small, crystal-like one in my favorite necklace box. The one that reminds me of the original gift-giver.

I keep an oval green one by my bed.

A few red-toned ones on my bookcase for me to look at.

But my favorite one was the one that wasn’t even my own nor found anywhere near the shoreline. It’s the inconspicuous grey one that lives in your room and you sent me a picture of and said, “you’re this one. You’re beautiful on the inside and outside, but, sometimes, you don’t even realize it”.