seashells

Rue Huang, United States

I hold one to my ear, and listen. Waves crash against sandy banks made pearly; the sun shines brightly. It’s a foggy morning, and my Po Po is holding my hand as sea foam gathers between our toes. 

Why do the waves always go back? 

Po Po smiles, and we begin to walk. Our feet leave prints in the sand, and she points to our trail, slowly washing away. 

They remember where they came from. She picks up a shell, holds it to her ear. See! I can hear the stories they tell. 

I take the shell, and listen. there is but a hollow ring. Po Po smiles again as she watches me.

-— -— -— -— 

Three years later, her eyebrows crease as she tries to read the timer on the stove. Funny, she muses, it seems I’ve forgotten how to read! 

We laugh, a sea urchin of uncertainty prickling at the backs of our necks. Mother points out the three, the six, the nine, shows the ticking hand. Po Po is puzzled, but that night we didn’t need clocks for her to cook us a meal for kings.

Soon, we drive six hours to home, bellies full of fried shrimp and mouths with laughter. Three months later, she has forgotten how to speak. 

Po Po, I beg on the phone, say my name. 

She stares, a blank shore of sandstone smooth of imperfections. When I say my name, she smiles and claps. Her daughter—my aunt, claps with her. I am reminded of a mother and her baby. I hate it. 

Two months later, her room has a camera in it. 

Now, we can watch her. 

The seagull eye perches atop the wall, its white droppings lighter than air. They float up and cloud her eyes, making them misty. I want to hold a seashell to her ears until they clear, until the stories melt the seaweed holding her brain and body captive. 

She has nightmares now, about baby ducks and the ocean. She cries when we comfort her. One week later, she is admitted to the hospital.

There are things my parents will not say, or perhaps they do not know. 

But this I do know: there are three places in a hospital. 

There is a place where people go to get better, and there is a place where people go to die. And then, there is a room for people to hope and to cry; to laugh and to long, to wait as they find out which place their loved ones are going. 

Maybe, we waited in the third room too long. 

Maybe, we never laughed enough, never ate enough of her food, never went on long enough walks and never collected enough shells. Maybe we should have sang enough, loved enough, stayed long enough, said enough. 

Maybe, it should have been enough. 

Or maybe, it was enough. Until it wasn’t. 

Four months later, she died. 

-— -— -— -—

The room seemed smaller, darker, somehow. The lights’ periodical flickers which used to lighten the mood now seemed ominous. We sat at the dining table, eating in silence, because it seemed wrong to break it. 

My grandmother, my Po Po, had a huge personality, and an even bigger heart. Without her, how could things ever be anything but empty? 

-— -— -— -— 

I am at the beach again. 

Memories long forgotten come washing in with the tide, swirls of seafoam making the world spin. It’s a cloudy morning, and my heart feels cold and empty, though my hands feel emptier. 

And then— 

A prick. 

Ow! 

There is a small, pink seashell with a jagged edge embedded in the sand. Picking it up, I run my fingers along the roughness, the smoothness, the imperfections and perfections of it all. Looking closer, it is not only pink, but a sort of pearlescent white with streaks of soft orange running through.

I hold it to my ear. I listen. I hear. 

Why do the waves always go back? 

The waves soar and sweep and crash, and I feel the rain on my skin. They remember where they came from. 

The endless cycle of water, of sand, of return calms me. See! I can hear the stories they tell. 

And finally, instead of a hollow ring, I do hear.

Rue is a writer from the Mid-Atlantic. When she’s not writing introspective journal entries on bus rides, you can find her consuming her bodyweight in blueberries or running competitively. Her Instagram is @rue.huang.