Uncollecting

I hold onto small things sometimes. Seashells and pebbles. Hold them close to my chest, sync my heartbeat with their patterns. I memorize the texture, count the ripples on the shells. I reimagine their chips and cracks, filling them with my fingers as my mind shapes them whole. 

I worry about their erosion into fine sediment. I worry about their random dispersal. I worry about the disappearance of my fragmented imagination that once filled their incompleteness. 

What are the chances a small grain becomes part of a beach shore, sticks to the rim of an old sunscreen bottle, and then gets packed in a raffia straw beach tote before slouching in the passenger seat of a car with a parking meter ticket on its dashboard?

These scenarios bruise my breath, so I let go of the collection. 

I swim freely, feeling the ocean ripple against my fingertips. I memorize the texture, uncounting its wholeness from my imagination.