running along, i feel compelled to stop and pick them up, glossy and perfect, littered as they are across the pavement, celebratory confetti rained down from the broad branches above.

i can’t help myself. even as a kid, i used to collect them every autumn. line them up to decorate the rungs of my bunkbed. fresh out of their shell, they’re so tactile – the burled skin as slipperysmooth satiny as sleek polished marble, shining brightly like wet lacquer. so smooth they almost feel moist to the touch. the warm brown marbling giving a deep resinous glow, like antique wood. i used to oil and burnish them to a high sheen, then arrange them with care – a plethora of nut tchotcke festooning all the ledges and sills.

even now i am drawn to them. holding one as i run, feeling the satisfying weight of it, caressing the soft smoothness with my thumb, like a worry stone. inexplicably soothing to the touch.

they will soon shrivel and dry and lose their lustre, roll off into the gutters and cracks, and winter will come. but for now, they glitter against the bright autumn leaves underfoot, little golden embers winking at me invitingly, as i pass by.

the acorn – dents

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