She sees faces in the rocks and small stones she finds in the yard, faces staring back at her, smiling or reproachful, young or old. She hands them to me and sometimes I can see them too. The ones I can see I give names to, first and last, and hand them back to her to see if I got them right. I almost always get them right, or she says No, she looks more like a Pearl or a Maude to me. Then she'd put the smallest ones in her pocket, set the larger ones aside and, later, we'd carry them up to the steps, give them a nice shower from the garden hose, let them bask a while in the sun before bringing them inside to our box of facerocks.
Sometimes I wonder what ever happened to them after I moved away. I wonder if she tossed them back into the yard and garden before she moved to the mountains, or gave them away to the kids in the neighborhood, or if she just included the box one day with the other trash, dragged to the curb.
In my office today I have a large water cooler bottle filled with corks. None of them have names, though. I have a tea canister filled with Chinese fortunes, a small galvanized pail overflowing with red plastic coffee scoops, a display case for my hundreds of tin boxes, half a dozen terra cotta balls, a sizeable collection of rusty railroad spikes, and about half a million books, each with its own face behind it or within it.
I wish she could be here to see them.