The sand that was in her beach bag lives in a Ziplock baggie from 1993. A 27 year old bag of sand. It is forlorn, worn. It remains curled up in her yellow polka dotted jewelry roll. I take it out from time to time to visit. I have never opened it. I roll my hands over it. Smooth it from the outside between my fingers. It is not her. But it kind of is, you know?
Smooth. Sacred. Holy.
Not sure how I had the wear with all to scoop it from the bottom of the bag that day. It was in her Adrienne Vitadini black patent leather bag. Stripes alternating with mesh. I am sure that is how the sand got in. Mixed with a receipt for Santa Rosa plums and a trashy novel from the A&P.
I have thought about encapsulating it in a charm. I could take it with me to explore more beaches for her.
In so many ways she is every grain of sand inside. And she is all the beaches I see. Small bits of her last day remain in my keep. Tucked inside my own makeshift memorial.
