A Forgotten Pebble in a Pocket

Once, when, as with every day,
I was younger than the day before,
I found a forgotten pebble in a pocket,
smooth and round.
Rubbing it between fingers,
I buffed the coinciding memories
to a shine
until they gleamed in brilliant sunlight,
illuminating the moment
when you plucked the pebble
from the wet sand of the shore
and, noting its perfection,
passed it to me as the rarest jewel.
Rediscovered now but having no need
of monuments of stone, in memoriam,
however small, I threw it,
far and high,
and watched it fall.
I aged another day today.
The tides still turn.
The coat is now back
in the cupboard,
the pocket empty.