It sat there, literally, for centuries. The landscape changed winter to spring, spring to summer, summer to fall. There were trees that grew and died. Bushes that came and then disappeared, even the occasional flower would bloom and then shrivel up and die. There was, of course, the damage down by the elements. But as time passed and the use of the land changed it remained. No one noticed the rock. Cracked in places, grey on the outside but within, oh if they only knew, deep within were crystals of red and green and purple and yellow. It was all right that but no one noticed. A treasure just waiting to be found, and nobody knew.
It was the sixteenth summer of Irene Wilson’s life. She was grateful for it, more so than one might expect just looking at her. If you knew the history of Irene Wilson you would be apprised of the three battles with leukemia that she had fought, and won. So she knew the joy of being alive, so much more than someone who never had to fight to live. It was with this quietly joyful attitude that brought her to her grandparents farm in Iowa. She chose to spend that summer walking along the river that ran across the back of the property that bordered a wildlife preserve. She made bread with her grandma and rode the tractor with her grandpa. When she went to town it was to go to the feed store, or the general store.
She had kept a journal since she was a little girl and she had found the perfect place to sit and think, imagining so many wonderful things. Under a great oak there was the rock. She would lean against it and write or rest and relax. Little did she know that as she wrote of secret things and hidden things, there was a treasure of those things right there with her.