I remember skipping rocks at the creek, the heat of summer afternoons soaking into our shirts like liquid sunshine, sweat dripping down our backs in rivulets. I remember the hunt for the perfect rock, sorting through the soft jumble of polished limestone, seeking the smoothest, flattest rocks. We used to peruse the creek bed gathering those rocks as smooth and white as eggs shells then flinging them across the water in hopes they would skip and hop along the taught surface, leaving ever-expanding rings like ephemeral lily pads. Dad, ever the engineer, would always stand there and guide us through the exact hand position, the exact arm motion; you need to flick your wrist more and angle your elbow like this. We would have competitions- dad’s rock would inevitably skip 6, 7, 8 times, but my sisters and I’s rocks would almost always fall on the first or second skip, sinking like the minutes that flew by, getting carried away on the water’s current. At some point along the years we were slowly able to skip the rocks farther and farther, needing less and less guidance. And at some point along the way, the exact time I cannot pinpoint, we simply stopped skipping rocks on that creek bed, letting instead the placidity of adulthood carry us away. I wonder if now, if I have forgotten how to skip them.