# Meeting grandma at the beach Grandma loved the beach. We never came to this one, where she played as a girl. I imagine her discovering agates, pocketing each tiny miracle. Impish, greedy, grinning. Walking the boardwalk, my shoes don’t fit, feel clumsy and out of place. But will glass cut me? Is there too much trash? Kneeling, I unlace, shedding the petty armor. Skin to sand, I realize she’s here with me when—an agate! Small, luminous, imperfect. I just know she’s here— in the stone in the breeze in the rhythm of the tide. I walk down to the water and cry. ![[agate on the beach.jpeg]]