Empty Shell

I am three years old, nearly swallowed up in towering bubbles, swimming through suds in the large tub in our master bathroom. My mom has set out candles around the bathtub, and they cast long shadows on the gray walls and tile ledges. Light glints off of puddles that have formed from water sloshed over the edges in my careless splashes. I swim over to the edge of the bathtub, resting my arms on the cool tiled surface. On the ledge is a large colorful conch, an indicator of the bathroom's beachy theme. I pick it up, slowly turning it over in my hands. The outside is bumpy and white, with rust colored patterns running from the bottom and spiraling eventually into the pointed top. The inside, however, is smooth and flat, pastel sunset colors brushed across its surface. I study it, remembering hearing that if you put a shell to your ear you'll hear the ocean. I bring the shell up and press it against my ear, squeezing my eyes shut in concentration. I listen. A vague echo is all I hear. Where are the crashing waves? Where are the crying seagulls? I set it back down. That can't be the ocean.

I am five years old, stooped over the sand, scanning the beach for colorful shells and washed up treasures with my mom. My toes brush over the sand again and again, hoping to turn over something that catches my interest. I grip a plastic grocery bag tightly in my hand, already growing heavy with my latest discoveries. A broken sand dollar, a copper colored jingle, and a kitten's paw shell the size of my pinky nail are just a few things I have deemed worthy for my collection. I continue my search, venturing closer to the ocean, my feet padding along the spongy sand. Water rushes across my ankles, bringing with it a large array of shells. One catches my eye and I reach to pick it up before the tide pulls it back. Retrieving it, I lay it in my palm for further investigation. It's a fairly average shell as far as shells go, but it's in perfect condition. Smooth edges, no holes worn into it by years of water and sand dragging across its surface. The shell is white, so white it almost looks bleached, which makes it unlike most of the other shells in my collection. This is my favorite one so far. I clutch it in my palm and angle my head towards the sand again, sun beating on my shoulders, and begin looking again for something else to capture my fascination.

I am ten years old, walking through the aisles of a souvenir shop. These shops are everywhere in Florida, becoming more frequent as you near the beaches. There are cheap snow globes with palm trees in them, perched on dusty glass shelves. Alligator heads of all different sizes peer out at me with their glassy black eyes, mouths eternally thrown wide, their needle-like teeth set into their stiffened jaws. I walk by quickly, trying to get away from their empty stares. I reach an aisle filled with shells. Tubs of them, every kind imaginable. I wander by in awe. Although I know these are shells, they look nothing like the ones I scavenge for on the beach. These shells are huge, so much bigger and brighter than any I've ever collected before. They're also in perfect condition, no cracks, holes, or chips. How do they find shells like this? I marvel at their flawless condition, imagining professional shell scavengers scouring every beach to find shells this perfect, just to put them in a cheap souvenir shop for fifty cents each. What a sad fate to befall such beautiful shells.