For Sally I beachcombed seashells along the seashore:
shades of glistening yellows like her long, flowing hair,
shades of tangerine, like the taste of her smile in the sun,
pristine periwinkle and pearl-like oyster shell shards all!
Dozens, by the day.
Hundreds by the week.
I hunted, I discriminated, I selected only nature’s finest:
a treasure trove of glistening gems from which I would
craft a necklace fit for a princess, fashioned out of love,
and with a pendant symbolic of what she means to me.
She’s my darling angel,
so, an angel it would be!
Hour after hour, day after day, I became a shell artisan
breaking many before mastering the art of hole drilling.
I sized, selected, and positioned each “bead” on a table:
yellow cluster, orange cluster, one white periwinkle,
starting just where neck
would meet collar bone.
The segments repeated draping to the lower breastbone
and back to the other side of the princess’ kissable neck.
I studied her features at great length when at the beach.
I was sure the finished necklace would rest comfortably.
It resembled the rosary.
Even God would love it.
I went to great artisan lengths in creating the pendant,
cutting, shaping, oyster shell shards into angel wings,
carving driftwood to form the angel’s head and body,
discreetly employing wire and glue for solid bonding.
Better than I imagined.
An artful masterpiece!
We were at the beach when I presented my gift to her.
No gasping, joyous response, only questions:
What is it exactly? You really made this for me? Why?
What am I supposed to do with this? Thanks, I guess.
Just a thanks, I guess??
No kiss, or even a hug?
Her dad just bought her a Chevy Camaro convertible.
Said she was excited to be starting a new job at Kmart.
Said she wouldn’t be coming to the beach much now.
She said to call her, that we should get together again,
and hung the necklace
on the rear-view mirror.
I spent the remaining days of that summer at the beach
slathered in Bain de Soliel, tanning, writing, painting.
Twice afterwards, I called and left her a brief message.
Last of August she called, we caught up, made a date.
She would pick me up.
We’d go see a movie.
We drove slowly, endlessly, around, mostly in silence.
Seems there wasn’t a movie playing she wished to see.
I suggested dinner and then hanging out at the beach.
She suggested fast-food drive through, and so it was.
She used the restroom.
I sat, waiting in the car.
The angel necklace no longer hung on the car mirror.
I asked about it when she returned and got into the car.
So matter-of-factly, she says perhaps it’s in the console,
I looked and found it crushed to bits under a ton of junk.
My heart was broken.
There were no words.
In that moment everything in my universe crumbled.
It was a balmy, clear, starry night, sitting on the jetty,
once our place, where we used to come and make out.
Out of food and small talk, we headed back to the car.
My hot and sexy angel
was cold and a stranger.
I hoped when she called it was to rekindle the flame.
I made it clear over the summer how I felt about her.
She made it clear how much she enjoyed making out.
I thought it was love because I was in love with love.
Our expectations differed.
It was nice while it lasted.
As far as seashell necklaces go, I vowed that I would
never again craft another unless I wanted one, myself.