We had combed the edge of the waves for hours, Tides had rushed in, erasing the mornings sand castles. The waves had receded leaving tidal pools, shimmering in the afternoon sun.
She was maybe six years old,the bag of unremarkable shells dragging behind her.
“I’m tired,” she moaned. “These shells are all stupid!”
Smiling, I handed her a surf clam shell, its side still clinging together.
“I don’t want that thing!” she cried, and tossed it in the tidal pool.
The water ripped around the shell as it sparkled in the sun.
A tiny tear fell from her sunburned cheek.