Broken Shells

Dad bought a house near the ocean so we could try to live happily without mom. She died when I was five. Since then, sand and seashells became my toys. When I was seven, I got tired of building sandcastles and started collecting seashells -- but only the perfect, flawless ones. I hated broken seashells. Somehow they reminded me of mom: The part of my life that was missing.  Every day I collected shells of so many beautiful shapes and colors. Soon, my bedroom turned into a shrine. Seashells poured over my drawer, night tables, and windowsill. Sometimes, on the rug, I would draw pictures with the smaller ones. On rainy days, I use to imagine my bedroom in the bottom of the ocean, a place where only perfect shells were kept; the ones that were never washed to shore, broken on its rocks and corals, or smashed against its cliffs; The ones that never risked their lives to feel the sunshine dry their soul. My shells were protected. They would never face such torture. One day I dreamt of mom. She was showing me a broken shell. “Take this,” she said. “It’s broken,” I told her. Then she smiled, “No it isn’t, the rest is with me.” The next day I gathered all my shells and scattered them on the shore and into the ocean.  After that day I only collected broken ones. I knew mom was above the ocean breaking shells for me to pick up.