By the sea shore

There's a sound like the ocean when you put your ear to a conch shell.  Or it's supposed to be the ocean.  Lynn's always thought otherwise.

It's the sound of pulling and pushing and sighing and rushing.

Feral, fierce echoes.

There's a bone in your ear that's shaped like a shell.  Lynn thinks that's why the conch is so special; it’s a link, a familiarity that grasps as deep as your bones.

She found her conch on a trip to Cedar Key, with Tommy and Lizzie and Helen.  They wandered along the sand, skipping in and out of waves, watching the water eat the shore.  Lynn liked the way each wave flattened along the beach, grasping greedy at her toes.  Tommy and Lizzie whooped war cries at seagulls.  Helen chased a hermit crab from the tide line to a tidal pool.  Lynn gathered driftwood and seaglass, searching for the perfect natural knicknack.  The conch shell was half-buried in seaweed.  She washed it, standing calf-deep in the body of the ocean.

It still smells like salt.

Her other shells were presents from gift-shops and tourist traps.  Mementos from other people's vacations.  Lizzie brought her a clamshell with google eyes and acrylic lips.  Tommy gave her a scallop with a sunset and 'Montauk' painted on it.  Helen sent sand dollars wherever she went.

But when Lynn misses them most, she reaches for the conch shell and listens to its roar.