The dreaming

When I was a child, and the summers were longer and hotter, we went to the sea every day. Or so it seemed; I can still feel the wet sand clinging to my half-grown soles, the way it itched as it dried and hid itself in the crevices of my second-best shoes to surprise me, months later, as I drummed bored feet through Sunday school lectures.

For years I collected shells in a jar until, one cobweb-culling spring, I believed I had no use for them. No doubt they lie in landfill still, dreaming of forgotten waves, and of summers.

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