from “The Sea of Hands”

She inspected the jagged contours of the shoreline. Fractals. She remembered that. Long horizontal rows of waves crashed onto the beach one after another, as if each were a row of hands reaching for the soft beige sand, spitting up the sea’s contents: seaweed, kelp, shells, remnants of baby crabs—their tiny white pincher claws maybe bleached by the sun or that color anyway. Mermaid purses. Maybe a starfish. And yes, sea glass. She somehow remembered all that. It struck her as such an odd thought—how many rows of hands, touching the shore. She watched the rows and tried to count them but lost track after a while. The breeze off the shore moved through her and she felt like a ghost.


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