I ~ E L D Ix in the palm of a calloused hand, and my fingers,
edged with ragging nails, trembled so the pearl quivered with
light; and then and there any plans my mother had for making
me into a concert violinist drained like rain off a hill to become
one with my mysterious river.
Since that day I have always been planning to go back to
see if the big, black clams still cluster where Wisconsin s Rock
River sweeps the clay bottoms at the sharp bends, hoping to
find one with a pearl luminous as the moon and worth maybe
a thousand dollars.
But I never get there, and I do not even know if pollutants
have killed off the clams and my dream is, after all, just that
--a dream.
Once it wasn t. As a sunburnt crisp of a boy I opened and
examined tons of clams to obtain a wine glass full of precious
seedling
pearls with which I was loath to part. There was no
fascination comparable to spreading them on a card table,
watching the light, like tunes of a song, play a hundred, a
thousand variations on the same theme.
My precious pearls! What horizons they lighted! And then
to lose them--all of them--down the huge, circular hot air
register of my grandmother s furnace.
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