I found it in the wash, the orange br shell I picked up on the beach br that last time. One of my girls— br the one named after you— br br must have found it in my room br and wanted it. Clean calcareous br curve, a palm open to nothing, br reeking of sunshine br br and your death. For years br I didn’t know what to do with it. br You would have liked br this story: how a child br br slips grief into a careless pocket. br Breaks it to pieces. Lets it go.