Dug out

This rock should be whole. Of that, I am fairly certain. The fact that it is sitting on my living room table in various pieces does not exactly sit well with me.

But then, I have these compulsions that are, even to me, inexplicable.

For example, while walking my dogs on the beach, I spent half an hour digging with bare hands and a rusty piece of rebar to uncement a piece of shiny marbled rock that I thought looked interesting.

Embedded just below the sand, which was mostly covered with the detritus of coral and rusting oil pipelines, this weird thing that most closely resembled a turtleback popped out.

And before I knew it I was seeking the corners with my hands, trying to find the edges and the bottom. To what end, I had no idea. 

I sort of felt like Indiana Jones, uncovering that snake-ridden Egyptian tomb in order to beat the Nazis to the lost ark. 

Again, these things aren't particularly well thought through.

But surprisingly I found the edges, and even more surprisingly, the whole thing was light enough to carry -- at least to a coconut tree where I could return with my car to pick it up.

But the more I touched it, the more in flaked apart. First a few sharp corners sheared away along the side, then as I hauled it up to said coconut tree it broke in half. On the return trip fire ants had their way with it. And I think it broke a final time in my apartment.

I sort of feel bad for the rock, which must be volcanic, and really had no business being on a coral beach anyway.

I can't help feeling like maybe there are things that should not be dug out. Then again, the pieces will make nice book ends.