The driftwood ridges eddy and swirl like the cream in my morning coffee. It is a sculpture carved by the ocean and deposited on the sand. Back in my metropolis apartment it will be assumed to be an expensive trinket from an upmarket store, especially when surrounded by white seashells. But every time it catches my eye I will hear the sea and feel the sand that is coating my toes; and for that moment I will here again, home. Daisy.


Across the lonely beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I;
And fast I gather, bit by bit,
The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit–
One little sandpiper and I

–Celia Thaxton

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