I wanted more than anything for her to remember. Her life was becoming a shadow of past memories. Her words were becoming memorized phrases that had nothing to do with the present, but only of broken dreams and lies of broken promises to herself.
I walked into the nursing home room and found her asleep in her wheelchair. Pulling the small bag of seashells from my pocket, I set them on her overbed table, and rolled it in front of her.
“Hi, Mom,” I smiled.
She opened her beautiful blue eyes, and lifted her head to look at me.
I spread the shells out on the small table, and she began to touch each one of them. Some of them were chipped and the colors faded, but others were brilliant, looking as vivid as they had forty-five years ago.
“California…” she said.
“That was a beautiful day.”
© 2016, Rebecca Braun. All rights reserved.
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