There are easier places to start, but I choose the storage room under the stairs. I really don't know what's in there except for our carry-on suitcases.
I pull them out, one destined for Goodwill. Its replacement, black, plump and efficient -- but nowhere so well traveled -- is on the bed in the guest room upstairs waiting for its new home.
That done, I begin to mine the storage room for its other odd mysteries.
An inflatable mattress. Old backpacks. Oil paintings and golf clubs.
Matt's high school soccer bag. A crumbled football homecoming banner, black paint on orange paper.
Go! Fight! Win!
In another box, I find a green goose-neck lamp and 15-year-old printer, cushioned by a baby blanket and pillow in red, white and blue.
And finally. In the lowest, darkest corner of the storage room under the stairs, I see a pink, pear-shaped bag, a faux leather gem that shimmers in the shadows.
I have found my bowling ball.
About small stones. . . a little writing exercise I've happily copped from Euphenia over at Little Dogs on Long Leashes!