There's a huge ornate glass jar by the patio doors and every time I come in from the beach I empty my pockets into it. It's half full of seaglass now with the odd perfect shell or tiny driftwood sculpture in for good measure. I beachcomb like other people breathe, constantly turning over rocks, checking in the same spots day in day out and waiting without patience for the ocean to bring me new treasures.
Wish it was gold, Lochlan says as I unearth this morning's handful of glass from our walk, dumping it into the jar.
It is! It's worth more than gold. Each piece marks a moment of time spent at the shore.
That jar represents half my life, staring at the top of your little sunburnt skull while you take fifty years to sift through every grain of sand until you've got everything you can find and then I still have to pull you away.
I'm trying to figure out if this is a good thing or a bad thing to you.
I can just buy you a big bag of beach glass from the craft store.
BLASPHEMER.
It would free up our entire future though. Imagine how much free time you'll have, Peanut.
You can have all the free time you like. I'll take Sam with me.
Naw, I'm good. Same time tomorrow?
We smile at each other. The bickering never ends. He'll never be slow enough for me and I'll never be fast enough for him, but somehow we keep pace.
