Gone Fishing

I used to cry in the arms of my mom, when my dad was away in Roscommon. I remember a time when she asked me, “Do you cry this much when I’m gone?”

I still cry in the arms of my mom because my dad isn’t coming back this time. But she never sees the tears of missing her, because I am too busy being happy when she‘s with me.

My mom sent me a picture of the shells she collected while roaming the beach in Florida for the past couple weeks. My mom has a shell-collecting problem: Whenever we would go near the waters, she picks up any shiny or colorful piece of junk she sees on our walk. Then lugs them back in armfuls, trying to pawn them off on her kids to carry.

At home we have cups and shelves and bowls and plates dedicated to displaying her collection. Because once she picks them up, she won’t set them back down.

She told me she didn’t want the shells to feel sad. That someone picked them up, then decided they weren’t good enough to keep. So she keeps everyone she touches So they all can have a home, my home.

Which makes it a little hard for me to dust around them.