Fool’s Gold
Joy because all the rocks could fit
in a little girl's fist. I was a girl who
wanted a little shiny treat on road trips.
Still am. My parents always dished out
rules at every rock shop while we stopped
to get gas in the desert: Decide quickly!
Just one! How to choose between
chalcopyrite, rose quartz, fool's gold,
a geode slice, or amethyst? That word
so pretty on my tongue and teeth. I liked
to tumble that word around in my mouth
while riding my bike or waiting
for the school bus. It made me think-
perhaps for the first time ever-of being
a mother. Silly now to think of it, but
I thought if I had a little girl, I'd name her
Amethyst. Amethyst-how I loved making
the thyssst sound like a snake! Out of all those
dusty bins in all those souvenir stores, I kept
selecting fool's gold, kept buying it with
my allowance for the best payoff, the best trick.
Sometimes I'd convince the neighborhood kids
to believe I had a pirate map. There was treasure
found there, in the suburbs of Phoenix. The day
before, I'd bury it in the labyrinth of ditches
in the cul-de-sacs of our little stucco homes.
We rode bikes everywhere. When we were
outside, our parents never knew where
we were. I'd lead the younger kids to the very spot
I chose before. We kicked and clawed at the dirt
until that familiar gleam shone. I didn't mean
to fill our days. I know they went home and told
their parents we struck gold. And we did.
The unbelievable part is not that the kids believed
me every single time. The unbelievable part
is I thought we'd have a gazillion more days like
this—sun-drenched and dust-decorated,
our hours stretched like pastel taffy. I thought
we'd have so many days, more days flying-
riding bikes until sunset, popping wheelies
when the coast was clear. I thought
our parents would always be at the front door,
flicking on and off the porch light,
calling all of us home, all of us fools.
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