by Katy Goforth

The sound of waves sends uneasiness throughout my body, settling in my nerve endings and flicking them. Mix the sound with the smell of salt and marsh, and my body kicks on the turbo option zooming forward into my own anxiety. I would explore this with my therapist, but I know the origin.

Mama used to line up the live sand dollars on the splintered rail of the beach cottage. They were covered in a mossy grey. Alive and wondering where their wet home went.

She would put one in my hand, so I could feel the tiny hairlike feet tickle my skin as if it were trying to read my lifeline and warn me of the future. She would snatch the sand dollar back from me, and I would be left with a yellowish stain. A signal from the creature that it was alive and needed water. An SOS in its own colorful language.

Marching up and down the deck, she would douse them with a mixture of water and Clorox. Her intention being to change them. Make them pure. Turn them into something she could display for others to envy. Mama didn’t like much in its natural state.

I would watch her kill them, hanging over them with a smile and observing as her concoction ate their life away. The mossy grey would slowly turn to white. Some effort was required. Maybe a scrub to wash away the last vestiges of its natural state.

Mama would gingerly pick the dead sand dollars up with her blush lacquered nails, cradling them close to her bosom as if they were preemie babies. She’d made them brittle. More likely to crumble under a touch. Once in a while, she would cradle one too tightly and the razor-thin edge would turn to dust. Discarded for daring to not be perfect.

Lesson learned.