Shell

I found it in the wash, the orange shell I picked up on the beach that last time. One of my girls— the one named after you— must have found it in my room and wanted it. Clean calcareous curve, a palm open to nothing, reeking of sunshine and your death. For years I didn't know what to do with it. You would have liked this story: how a child slips grief into a careless pocket. Breaks it to pieces. Lets it go.