I did not find them by the sea but in a forest deep. They sat path-side.
A fossilized shell, wave-smooth, with a wooden wayfarer having lost all but itself. As one, they appeared a fish, head of stone, body and tail of crêpe myrtle.
On that day, they left one path for another. Who knows the how and why of leaving and joining. We just go along. Until we don’t.
Waves of endurance, eons for the shell. Sometimes, I cradle my thumb on its soft underside. Such a sense of forever.
Would that I were a shell, hardened to all that does not matter while cradling what does, a fallen myrtle, life-splintered, a rag of bark remaining.
To deepen with the years as ripples. Like a rock.