He runs and stoops
Picking up and tucking into
Pockets overflowing
Hands frustrating
He can’t steal them all
He wants the color
To rub off on his flesh
And his mind is overflowing
With thoughts
Spurred by the cold, smooth surfaces
His eyes see beauty where I’ve never tread
His mind knows how to process
What I can’t verbalize
I follow him closely
Having learned the water brings about anxiety
But excited that shells deposited along the shore
Elicit such great joy
He scampers and skips
Free to be himself in the uninhabited evening
As loud as he needs to be
As quiet as the sea will allow
He loops back around
Stuffing my pockets
And then off he goes
I fill my hand with his treasures
Opening it to find
Pebbles
While I’m admiring the shells and glass
The driftwood and seaweed
And the miscellaneous trinkets left by the sea
Reflecting on the beauty in their colors, shapes, and
textures
He sees only the pebbles
Black, gray, and white
And I loved him even more in that moment
E.A. O'Connell
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