I collect sand and seashells. My office/loft holds shelves and shelves of treasures from the sea. I’ll admit to being somewhat of a snob about it. I don’t like broken seashells, chipped ones. I’ll rarely bring home anything less than whole.
Last June, Frank and I took Jamie, Josh, the kids and Chris down the shore (Brigantine Beach.) I found myself drawn to broken shells, the pretty bits of pink and tan and white. I came home with a jar full of broken pieces, and put them on my shelf.
Chris was broken when we went down the shore, and yet I didn’t make any connection between that and the shells I was collecting. Before the month was out, he was gone. All this time later, spotting that jar on the shelf, it hit me. Egads. Had I written it into a novel, it would’ve been maudlin, too obvious a metaphor. And yet…
