Amongst my mother-in-law's hoarded treasures,
a rusted Normal Rockwell tin
weighted down with--what?
pebbles
bits of glass
green
blue
but mostly plain and clear
seashells
barnacle-crusted clam shells
the sorts of things of which mothers say,
"What are you going to do with those
when you get them home?
I'm not going to carry them for you."
Now I spend my priceless time
placing each into a jar
considering whence it came.
The neighbors' waterfront?
Rialto Beach?
Point no Point?
The Oregon Coast?
Rain patters on the attic window.
One day my daughter will say,
"Your great-grandfather's very own hand
carried these home from the bay
one hundred years ago."