I know I am special despite all the various shells that lie in heaps left behind from the high tide that tossed me to my current resting spot. I am half the shell I used to be but still consider myself “one in a million.” People are constantly searching the shore line for what they consider to be the “perfect shell.” Shouts are heard when they find a treasure they consider theirs alone.
Days, weeks, and months go by. I feel the urge to reach out and touch someone, but who would want a shell as small as me? Would they see the beauty and uniqueness of my petite state? I am about the size of a thumbnail, and hold great regard in the fact that my shell represents the sun bursting forth from the horizon while spreading light upon the world.
As I look up from my resting spot, I see her–a person who doesn’t have her hands full of shells or plastic bags full of them either. As she nears me, I put on my best shine and feel the warmth and energy of her fingertips as she gently picks me up and caresses me in the palm of her hand. I am her one and only, her gift from the sea.
Monica Sleap. 10/1/2005
Kay Windsor said:
I think that we had read Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s Gift From the Sea before we had this beach retreat, and we were to let a shell find us as we walked on the beach. The shells became our writing prompts and sometimes, our touchstones. Found objects can sometimes tell us a lot more than we know about where we are.