sea

When I turned seven, my father gave me a conch and told me it held the ocean. The spines were worn round and smelled of brine. I held it over my palm and shook gently to release water or fish. My father took it and pressed my ear against the smooth flesh pink mouth of the shell, watching my face closely as I listened. I strained to catch sounds of the beach, but received none. I heard no sea gull cries, no laughing children or off-key melodies from an ice cream truck. I did not hear sand or surf or people on holiday. Instead, the shell breathed into my ear the muted roar of distance and open sea. When my breath grew calm, and my eyes still, my father saw that I had heard.

“For when you seek quiet,” he said, placing the conch into my hands. “When too many people and too much noise surround you, hush and listen.”