GOLD

The idiot yelling from the back seat makes the woman
in the sixth seat uncomfortable. She clutches purse
to chest, coughs with dry nervousness. Hands bolt
like startled animals, claw through the contents of her bag,
search for mints or receipts or change to clutch.
And her fingers find a stone that Natalie
had plucked from the beach last summer
when the water was cold, sky overcast, sand dull:
a stone — a little chunk of iron pyrite
mistaken for gold.

The man yells again, claims that he could drive
this damned bus better himself. Reminds her
of her dead husband, the way he was
convinced of his expertise on everything,
the way he had pitched the glittering stone to the sand
chastised them for foolishness, cursed them with poverty.

And the sudden richness in her hands makes her smile.

— barbara fletcher