Photograph

She was washing dishes at the sink in her Mother’s house when she saw the shell.  Just a simple seashell, blushed with pink around the edges, sitting on the window ledge.  Years that had gone past suddenly tumbled and tripped over each other until she was back in 1965….   She saw it, almost as a photograph, could almost see the white border spinning around Kodak paper….

Miles in the distance, the sun glistens white dapples across the quiet sea-blue surface.  Waves pile in a froth against the shoreline.

Two people play alone on the beach, an adult and a ten-year old child, in the midst of a network of their own criss-crossing footprints.

The adult is a much younger image of Mother with dark hair, wearing a pair of cat-eye sunglasses.  She bends over, reaches toward the sand with one hand, holding a small paper bag with the other.  Her crisp shirt and beige skirt are comfortable and cool in the morning heat of August and, just like a child herself, her shoes are nowhere to be seen.

The ten-year old girl, on hands and knees, digs for shells to help fill Mother’s bag, an elaborate process to relish the warm pleasure of sand.  Young skinny legs show from her shorts, and tousled wind-swept blond hair almost obscures her face as she concentrates on her search.

She could smell the salt air, hear the soft wash of gentle surf and cries of gulls scolding the summer, taste the wetness on her lips….

Wetness.  The kitchen pulled her back to the present as huge drops of rain splattered against the window screen and sprayed her face with kisses.  She closed the window against the sudden storm, and drew in her breath.  The shell on the sill, coated with a mist of drops, looked as it did when freshly picked from the ocean waves, still holding spray from the sea.  And, suddenly, Mother was there.