As sunlight plays tag on the roofs of maple trees, dappling leaves glitter and shudder in the gentle breeze.  These trees surround a beach where four, young girls sink in warm sand.  Their father is there, too, and he picks his way through rocks bordering an inlet of the blue Long Island Sound.

I am one of those girls, searching for treasures of shells and other mysteries washed upon the beach. 

The heat crawls along my skin and I pull off my t-shirt, revealing a faded, pink bathing suit.  I fling my t-shirt down onto an old blue blanket that holds my sisters’ found treasures and a green jug of red Kool-Aid and melting ice cubes.  And, undoubtedly, sand, too.

The ocean stretches and stretches, shimmering and flickering, as sunlight bounces upon gentle bumps of waves.  I watch my father, waist-deep in the cool water.  He wears a sleeveless shirt; his white shoulders and arms bulge as he bends down, seeking for clams to pry up out of the dark sand.  He quickly finds them, and, one-by-one, chucks them into a wooden basket bobbing near-by.  The clams clink against one another.

I long to be there, digging my fingers deep into the ground, blindly searching for the hard, familiar shape of a clam.  I’d like to see my father’s curly, light hair become wet and curlier as he dunks down again and again.

His voice trails out to my youngest sister, who is five years old now.  “Don’t come out any further, Maria.”

Maria stands up to her bellybutton in water, squints her dark eyes, and splashes at Barbara, who quickly splashes her back.  They both giggle delightedly.

I gently rest my palms on the water, carefully, so it slips in-between my fingers.  I walk slowly about, pulling one leg up, down, then the other.  Suddenly – ouch!  A creature rudely snapped and bit my foot.  Hurriedly, I splash away.  A crab!  My fright makes me shudder and I cry out.  My father, now coming in with the basket full of gleaming, black clams, looks at me, and frowns, “What’s wrong?”

Tears build up behind my eyes as I force words up and out.

He listens to my cry and tells me, “Don’t worry, I am sure it was nothing.”  He busily sets the basket on the water, examining its contents.

I swallow hard, making my tears disappear.  A struggle bursts inside and I try not to be a child, but stronger, like my father.  He tells me, “A nine year old is a big girl and you shouldn’t cry.”  I tilt my head and listen hard.

I decide all I wanted was some sympathy.  I pretend the snap was my imagination and the stinging lessens.

Donna, who is eleven, and a big girl, runs down the beach to my father.  Her plump, pink toes bounce up and down, momentarily disappearing in the pebbly sand.  My sisters splash my father and he laughs heartily, his tall, great body towering above, his smile reaching the bright, blue sky.

Letting my sisters hold clams, he beckons to me.  I wade over, silently grumbling about my stinging foot.  Picking up a large clam, I hold it in my palms and inspect the graininess of the rough shell.  I decide this clam must be a big girl, too, because it is strong and hard.  And, then I think, beautiful, too.

Note:  This little story was written by me when I was twenty-one years old, for a college creative writing course, Childhood in Literature.  I copy it here, word-for-word, to enjoy the simplicity of my writing at that time.  How often I think of Professor Parry, who encouraged me to write.  Her comment about this story:  “Jean, you write very sensitively about a vivid memory of someone you have lost, except in your mind and spirit.”  Yes, I think – memory, mind, spirit, and clams go hand-in-hand, and are all treasures and mysteries found on the beach.