SEASHELLS

I unhook my buck knife from my side pocket, release it, and slice open all four of the cardboard boxes of seashells stored on our garage shelf. I pick through the treasures. There are silvery oyster shells, a large conch, some clam shells, and little spirals like the ones I found in Mexico as a kid. I remember exploring the tide pools at Puerto Peñasco with my dad, assembling my own little collection, long gone now.

I sort through the biggest box, combining smaller baggies into larger containers. I pull out one particularly large scallop and look at it closely. Inside the curve is small black ink lettering I hadn’t noticed before. Scallop, Acapulco, April 1961.