Sea Glass

Anabelle Taff

RUNNER UP OF THE RIVER’S SPRING 2025 FLASH FICTION CONTEST

“It has no value, sweetheart. Find something pretty,” Mom insists.
Under the waves, it is shining up at me, aquamarine and alone. She carries on down the shore and I reach down, plucking it up from the muddy sand. I hold it in the cool ocean and watch grains fall away to become one with the water again. It lays flat in my palm, glinting under the oppressive beats of the fiery sun. My thumb slides across the smooth, weather worn edge and across the protruding T on the top of the piece of sea glass.
As the tide pulls in, I retreat and jog after my mom, my fingers folding over the piece of broken Topo Chico bottle. I pocket the colorful treasure in the back of my flowery swim trunks.
Mom looks at me over her sunglasses. “Did you find any sand dollars?”
“No,” I answered. “Just a few shells.”
“Maybe you’ll find one next week.”
Back at the cottage, I stand under the sputtering outdoor shower-head. The wood planks constructed around me are musty and burn my nostrils as I lather my sand stuck feet in vanilla and honey Dove soap.
When I’ve dried off using my big brother’s Spider-Man towel, I put on a soft gray
Henley shirt that is a hug around my skin. I tie the front of my dark green basketball shorts in a neat bow. The crinkling material grates on my chafed thighs as I bend over to fasten the velcro of my Teva sandals.
The backyard is around the corner from the shower, and I peek up at the house’s
windows as I step onto the pliant, summer beaten grass. Mom isn’t anywhere to be found, so I dart to the mulch beds at the far end of the garden. Between the indigo and mauve hydrangeas, I plant the aquamarine sea glass. It is now one with the reflective symphony of broken bottles, patterned vases, dirty windows, and jam smudged mason jars glittering in the evening.
I step back from my cultivated graveyard of ocean comrades and whisper goodbye into the haze of the setting sun.

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