the shell

Emily Cashour

Shell

I’m not like everyone else. No one stops to look at me, gasping in awe of my unique beauty. No children say “Daddy, daddy! Let’s take this one home!” No couples smile as they pick me up and put me in their bucket for a cheap wedding decoration.

I’m a black shell. Old, holed, and a reminder of the igneous rock that formed me. I have no defined shape; I’m just kind of a slab. Nothing special, never have been. Never will be.

What’s this? I feel something caressing my back. It’s different than the normal gentle kiss of the waves. I look up, and there’s a girl. She’s maybe about fourteen, and she’s holding me with tears in her eyes. She brushes off some sand, and sets me gently into her purple bucket. A bucket! I’ve made it into a bucket!

As she carries me further along the beach, I meet some of the other shells. None of them are like the shells I’ve seen on the beach. They’re all flawed in some way. One is only a chip, another is grey like storm clouds. I sigh, content and at home.

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Eventually we leave the beach, and she sets the bucket with us down onto the passenger’s seat of a car. A short drive later, she walks into a small beach house, and sets us down on the counter. She sighs, and then picks up the bucket and turns it upside-down. We shells are spread all over the marble surface, and she gently spreads us all out so she can see each everything.

She smiles, but I don’t understand it; tears are streaming down her face and I can’t exactly tell why.

She runs out of the room and returns a few minutes later; with paint, paintbrushes, and string. She uses the holes in some shells and creates small holes in others, stringing them all together to make what appears to be a necklace. I’m confused and sad because she just keeps skipping over me. The only black shell and it’s blatantly obvious. I can’t even fit in with the misfits; that’s saying something.

When all the shells are used, she ties one more special knot on the middle of the necklace. She picks me up, and connects me with another, more intricate knot. I finally understand; I’m the centerpiece. All the other shells have swooshes of paint on them, but me, I remain black as night and different as day. She smiles again, but this time the tears don’t flow. She puts the necklace on, and smiles gently. She walks over to the mantle, and picks up a picture with a beautiful woman on it. She has laugh lines and sparkling green eyes. Her blonde hair is golden in the sun, and the picture has clearly been picked up a lot; the edges are worn a lighter brown.

“I love you mom.” She says gently, smiling through the tears.