Peach Pit

There's a book my mom told me about a while ago in which a boy carried around a peach pit wherever he went. I forget why. 

This boy was separated from his family somehow but as an adult his sister met him by chance and knew it was him when she saw him playing with a peach pit, worn smooth from years of her brother holding and turning it over and over in his hands. 

- Something like that. 

I think I would lose interest in a peach pit very quickly and lose it or get rid of it, and envy the boy for keeping it his whole life, long enough to wear it down smooth and almost make it a part of himself. 

I've recently been thinking of uncomfortable lumps of thought as peach pits. They have all these jagged edges that jaby heart, my soul, my brain while I think of them and, like the peach pit I cannot let them go. 

But almost like a rock in a stream (though that would take forever and a day), the more my thoughts touch and wash over the peach pit, the more the sharp edges erode. Bit by bit, the little thoughts that come with the big weight smooth out and I am left with a smooth peach pit that has become part of me because I eroded it myself with my own repetitive thoughts. The weight of it is always there, and it takes up space, but it doesn't jab into anything like it used to. 

And I'm not talking about eroding a stone with repetitive happy thoughts. I'm referring to what authors describe as "turning the thought over again and again in her head."  My thoughts need to be thought, but each time, it's for the better, because my thought clump, my heavy sharp rock, my peach pit is going to hurt a lot until my thinking runs its course.