Obsidian with grey-lines

My Great-Aunt Liz's Gifts: My graduation gift, a gift to my mother, and today's gift of obsidian.

I had one of my oldest clients today. She was in her eighties (late eighties) and needed help on the table, only able to lay side-lying. Her modesty was nonexistent; she stripped down, and I saw her aged skin head to toe. It reminded me of my great-grandmother's (she was 94 when she passed) except not as translucent. Touching this client's skin was bizarre. Shifting across muscles that are more toned than expected, dry patches that scratch and flake, the muscle's handling a surprising amount of pressure. There's something so strange about working on something some foreign, this tiny figure surrounded by too much skin, curled up like a six-month fetus.

After work I went to visit my great Auntie Liz and my great Uncle Bill. I have to leave the dash out of "great [relative]" because although they are my dad's aunt and uncle, they are also great. Truly. They've lived epic lives--they lived in Tanzania for quite a while as missionaries, and also traveled other places. Honestly I'm not sure where they have all been. But every time I have ever visited they made me so, so welcome. Uncle Bill introduced me to Mr. Bean, Aunt Liz introduced me to creamed honey. And every time we had to leave, Aunt Liz would let me choose a rock from her collection.

See, she collects rocks. She knows more about them than anyone I know. She polishes them, has special cabinets with felt-lined drawers. When I was younger, she would pick a stone out of her small polished stone basket. Those were the rocks for kids. Now, however, she lets me choose out of her case. I chose the obsidian obelisk, which she sad is grey-lined. Obsidian is hard to cut, I guess, and obsidian cutters rarely share their secrets.

She's lost her appetite and has lost fifty pounds. I know that's a bad sign, that she'll not live too much longer. I think she's giving away her collection as a way of prepping for passing. I can see how the skin on her arms looks, the skin on her feet. "This isn't where we want to be," she said, "but it's where we need to be."