Worry Stone

Cast concrete brick.
Traces of oil and skin.

Duration: a lifetime.

When I was 12 my grandmother gave me a worry stone, I was an anxious child, always twirling my hair into contentious knots. This public display of disorder did not sit well with my grandmother and it was from this place that she saw gifting me the stone as a more socially acceptable and discreet way to counteract the obvious effects of my worry. So for years, I ran my fingers along its smooth surface, rubbing away traces of myself.

But soon the weight outgrew the lining of my pockets and I began to understand the cost of friction when constantly polishing a surface. Worry is usually seen as an invisible erosion, a quiet shifting of our interior landscape but what gets lost or left behind in the wearing away of an identity.