where the writers are

He was a pile of sand.

I held it in my hands (as carefully as it is possible to hold something

that is not really something

but millions of little things that don't stick together.)


It kept slipping through my fingers.


Eventually my palms were empty.

But there was always persistent and residual grit

in socks,

and towels,

and the bottom of backpacks.

How long these little grains can live in dark and forgotten places

and turn up when one hasn't been to the beach in so long!


But, inevitably, after countless loads of laundry,

and the discarding of old shoes,

these tiny, beautiful little pieces of glass


cease to be seen.