Malas and Moonstones

I've taken to wearing malas around my neck, 108 beads to meditate on and a moonstone on my finger, smooth and clear rather than milky whose depths hint at other worlds. These might be the trappings of spiritual materialism, but I don't care. These are the days. I walked to the grocery store today under brilliant blue skies, through dry brown sycamore leaves, the Los Angeles fall a blaze of red here and there, the sun warm. A man approached me on the way home, his quick step, the backpack, his dark hair, the moment when you wonder who moves to the side first, I did, and my eyes slid to the left and his to the right but only one eye, the other fixed in place, like the moonstone on my finger, smooth and clear rather than milky.