A Perfect Sand Dollar

It was three months after Harry passed on that the earthquake struck. Helen resisted the impulse to seek shelter under a door jamb and just stayed in bed, listening to the dishes rattle and pictures shift and praying the Lord would see fit to take her now and be done with it. After all, she was a child of the earthquake, having been born during the 1933 Long Beach temblor. Only fitting that she should join Harry during another one.

But then there was the resounding crash of broken glass in the bathroom, just before the shaking stopped.

When she went to check, long moments later, she found that what had broken was her beloved seashell mirror. A fine example of Harry's craftsmanship, it had been framed with a lifetime of memories. Many of the shells were still intact. But the most prized one, the perfect sand dollar that had held the place of honor at top center, was shattered.

"Oh, Lord, Harry, our dollar!"

This was the shell that had begun the collection, over half a century earlier when, on their honeymoon, Harry had plucked it from the surf, saying, "Here's our first dollar. Stick with me and I'll make you a millionaire."

Over the years he'd made good on that promise.

The memories of fifty-plus summers together welled up in her eyes until the tide reached flood stage and overflowed. She was jolted, literally, back to the present by an aftershock that swayed the walls and by the insistent barking of a dog, sounding for all the world like Sandy, but that just couldn't be, could it? She held the fragile bits of sand dollar in her hand as if they were pieces of her broken heart and suddenly she knew what she had to do.

As soon as the sun was up, Helen found herself behind the wheel of her classic '65 Chrysler Imperial, westbound on Interstate 10 out of Palm Springs. Though she wasn't sure when, or even if, she'd be back, she'd packed light, carrying only a tote bag that held a sweater and the few things she would need for her mission.

As Harry's business had grown, they'd followed the real estate and population booms inland, retiring almost ten years ago to the desert. Never had Helen lived so far from the ocean, the only place she and Harry had ever felt they truly belonged. Harry had talked for years of moving back to the coast. If only his failing health had left him reserves enough to pursue that goal.

The seacoast had given them Sandy. Soon after discovering that they would not be able to have children, they had been on one of their long walks, lacking the heart to search for shells, when they were found by a bedraggled ragamuffin of a little mutt in need of a home. That dog gave them their life back and over the years, Sandy and her children and her children's children became Helen and Harry's family. When the last of them, little Houdini, was lost to his final and fateful escape act, Helen thought Harry would die of a broken heart.

And now Harry truly was gone. No Harry. No Sandy or Boomer or Houdini. Just Helen, all by herself and alone.

She pulled off the freeway at an empty expanse of land that used to be an orange grove but had been cleared for a new subdivision. She wept until her eyes cleared enough to see the little plastic bag that held the broken bits of Harry's sand dollar. She pulled herself together and continued on her way.

The beach was thankfully almost empty, the March winds having scoured the sand clean of all but a couple of joggers and a few hardy, wet-suited surfers braving the chill waves. Helen kicked off her shoes and scrunched her toes in the lukewarm sand. How many years had it been? She breathed deeply of the salt-and-seaweed-scented air and knew she was almost home. She would be there when she found the perfect sand dollar and had returned herself and Harry to where it had all begun.