The One I Searched to Find

At my grandma’s house
was a jar of marbles

I remember this well;
I remember it like this:

We never really played with them, exactly

Instead, just dump them out of the jar

I’d pick out my favorite one
roll it around the palm of my hand
Unsure what to do with it,
only knowing it was beautiful,
just so,
blue and crystalline
with that one dull
imperfection
at its center.

Always, I’d find it,
from the pile of marbles
tumbled out of the jar
to the floor
And each time I felt it,
cool and comforting
in the palm of my hand

It was such relief:

Like I was shocked to find it again
even though each time
I knew, it was there,
waiting,
right where we’d placed it,
back in the jar.

There was something about finding it
from the jumble of all the others—
they all seemed so dull, so plain,
in comparison
that finding it was utter delight.
It wasn’t that it was so much
more beautiful, really,
it was just that it felt like a secret.

Like everyone else only saw
the beautiful blue,
the way the light shone through
when I held it at just the right angle,
the swirls and twists of color,

and then that bit of brown
right in the center
made it a little less perfect
than the pure blue one
in the jar

But to me, it was mine,
the one I always searched to find

and it wasn’t that the brown spot
was an imperfection
it just made the blue
all the more beautiful.

I'd hold it in my hand,
quietly,
until the time came
and all the marbles
were placed carefully
back in the jar.

Every time I forgot about it
as soon as it was back
in the mix
trapped amid the others

But as soon as we'd reopen the jar
and the marbles would tumble out
I'd remember
and search, and search,

Until, at last!
The delight
of feeling its cool, small comfort
in the palm of my hand

if only for a second

it was worth it,
just finding it,
just knowing it was there all along.