it's monday and all the tourists are up early scouring the beach for shells before their flights. up and down they go clinging to that persistence of memory. i've already bottled up the sand on day one, written my confessions on the wet surface that can't be washed away soon enough, and now i go to look for the tiniest shell. it's always the ugly part of the beach. the place just after the couple has turned around to start their walk back down the shore. there's dried seaweed and twisted debris and it smells a little like garbage. right there is where i kneel and look for her. and i always find her. she's white as a bone and small and demure; a bit surprised that i'm picking her up, she tries to burrow herself down in the sand. i scoop her into my hand and rub her between my thumb and forefinger, so gently, that she can't help but know she's loved. i put the tiniest shell in my pocket and i begin my way home.
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