THE SAND DOLLAR SIGN

Gentle waves lapped at my bare feet as I walked along the Jersey Shore on an overcast day last summer. Sometimes I could almost hear God’s voice in the whisper of the water. I listened for him, but lately he had been silent. Even here at the ocean. The silence only made me miss my mother more, as if I were grieving her death all over again, feeling the sharp, fresh pain of being alone without her.

I tried to take comfort in the cool tickle of the water, the slight pull around my ankles as it changed course. I shielded my eyes from the sun and turned to see how far I’d walked. Traces of my footprints showed in a long chain in the wet sand. A solitary pair of footprints.

There were other people out walking. A few children hunting for shells. A man with a dog. Fishermen here and there. I dug my big toe into the sand, unearthing a scallop shell. Mom would like this one, I thought. Perhaps she would have kept it in the treasure box I’d found when I was cleaning out her apartment. I’d packed up her clothes, marked items for donation, gathered up keepsakes for the family to sort through together.

When I first came across the box, I didn’t know what it was. I opened it expecting to see old letters or documents she’d tucked away. Instead, I found a collection of things that didn’t go together. I ran my hand through the treasures. A matchbook. A round stone. A little carved bird. Memories that had meant something to Mom but were a mystery to me.

Then I spotted what looked like a flat disc and freed it from the jumble. A sand dollar with a hook on it...read more