Seashells

Everything is prettier on the beach. The seafoam gives the waves an illusion of snow capped mountains and the sun is a bright blossom in the sky, though the autumn air is crisp and reveals my slow steady breath in the from of wispy clouds that fade away into nothing. The beauty of this place has never failed to captivate me, so as I stroll along the seaside in my fuzzy red sweater and rolled up jeans, I take in my surroundings with every step. But I’m not here just to walk, I’m scanning the sandy ground as I go, taking inventory of its contents, and then, when i spot a salmon pink shell or a piece of glass whose sharp edges have long since been softened and rounded off by the tide, I pluck it from its home, admire its every bump, curve and edge, then when I am satisfied, I place it in a small wicker basket, and continue on my way. These treasures are my way of conserving each moment of bliss. Each graceful second that passes by in this place, lives inside a seashell. And once I have walked past every inch of the shore, and reached the jagged rocks where waves crash leaving the rocks slippery and wet, I walk back to the edge of the beach, and say goodbye to this place, thanking it for the treasures I will take with me, and wishing the ever darkening sky where hues of pink and orange are starting to show themselves, goodnight. 

    It’s now summer time, and I have visited the beach once again, the warm sand tickles my bare feet, and the sun rays beat against my exposed arms and legs. And today, I have brought the beach a gift, so after I have spent a day diving in the waves and bathing in the sun, I take a walk across the beach, admiring the setting sun, and when I come to an especially beautiful scene, I lift a shiny shell, or soft green piece of sea glass from my small wicker basket, and I place it down on the sand, where the tide can take back its memory, and claim back its precious piece of time.