Each wave pulls back a curtain,
a timed reveal of changing merchandise
as hand in hand my daughter and I
make our way to the silver jetty.
“Let’s stop by the seashell shop,”
I nod, and we let ourselves sink in
waiting for each wave to rescind.
She shares her worries and her search
for the “the ones with holes.”
I say, “Don’t we all have those?”
as I capture a colorful shell under my toes.
Pockets full, we race out the tongue of the jetty,
content with the cold spray,
and despite the rambunctious waves,
the cymbal crash of the sea,
I am listening.
You are the seashell to my ear, and
I know there are many future holes
to hear, as I walk this shifting shoreline
with my most precious find.
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