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Hi, my name is Ashley Durnil, and I am a Biology Pre-Med major. In my free time, I dance for the Marian Knights Dance team and spend time with friends. In my future, I would like to be a Doctor of Osteopathic Medicine!
I wrote this short story because I wanted to be able to connect to you as a reader about someone who left a special mark on your heart and in your life. Everyone leaves something beautiful behind, and everyone has a story, and I wanted to bring that to life.
October 10th 1950
I grasped Grandma's soft frail hand. She smelled of sweet lavender and menthol rub. Her face, full of wrinkles, each holding a different story. Every step was cherished as if it were her last.
“Grandma! Grandma!” I said. “Ready to go?”
Grandma stroked my face with her timely hands. “Yes darling.”
Me and Grandma walked just around the block to a nearby beach. The air smelled dewy from the salty waves. There was a slight breeze that tickled my skin. We stepped onto the soft sand as it wiggled through my toes. Grandma browsed the area and picked up a seashell where she could find one. My frail knees ached as I crouched down in search of some as well.
“Darling, come, come I have found the perfect one.”
I scurried over to grandma to find a rusty, cracked old, and scuffed up, dirty brown shell lying in the center of her palm. I was confused as to why she would hold such a shell and think it possessed so much beauty.
“Isn't it beautiful,” Grandma said.
“But grandma, it's scratched up and dirty. That's not beautiful.”
“My darling grandson… that's what makes it beautiful. Each speck of dirt, each scuff mark, and each crack, is a story, and none the less a beautiful one.” She breathed, “Everything has a story, and should be cherished as such, even if it's a little rough around the edges.”
August 3rd 1951
“Grandma!” I called from the other room. “Grandma?”
Silence.
I walked over to her room feeling shaky. The door was cracked open. I heard a wheezing noise, similar to the sound of a suffering animal; it was almost as if she wasn't breathing well . I quickly got my mom to help.
Not even an hour later and I was balled up in the corner, tears staining my face like blood on a pillow. The beach was my safe space, the place I would go to remember my grandmother, the place I would flee to during hard times. In my attempts to hide the fact that I was grieving, I would head to the beach to mourn. I collected seashells, but not the pretty ones. I collected the shells with character– the shells with a story. Since her death I made sure to collect a new shell every day and add them to a jar labeled, The Circle of Life.
July 5th 1995
It’s been too long since I've written, but no better time to start up again than now. Life has been so busy the last couple of years, but honestly, they were some of the best years of my life. It is an especially wonderful day today because my beautiful daughter had a baby. My soft frail hands delicately brushed her baby skin. She smelled of roses and sunshine. Her eyes, as blue as the ocean. Her hair, as soft as silk. My beautiful granddaughter Elise, born on July fifth nineteen ninety five.
February 6th 2000
It's been a couple years, and I have been busy helping my daughter with Elise. Elise, my sweet loving granddaughter, is now old enough to walk to the beach with me. Luckily, I'm not too frail and weak quite yet so I can get around. My grandmother was a constant on my mind as I made it a tradition for me and Elise to venture to the beach every Sunday. Elise loves the beach; she loves the breezy air and the crisp smell of the ocean winds as they blew in her face. I watched as my beautiful grandchild ran around in the white sand until she was too tired to stand. She reminded me of her mother with the way she was so wild and free. Her strawberry blonde hair blew around in the breeze as she waddled her way over to me perched under a protruding rock.
“Grandpa!” Elise yelled. “Look at this beautiful seashell I just found.”
“Oh, how Wonderful!” I replied witfully. I picked up a shell sitting just underneath the sand. It happened to be one wise shell, for it had so many scars.
August 15th 2005
I am ill.
I haven't been able to write much because of it, and I don't have much time before my story comes to an end. Elise is of perfect age to take over the jar., I just know she will continue the Circle of Life.
The cane I held had become moist from my sweaty hands. It held me up through each weight bearing step as I made my way over to Elise’s room. The door was sleek white, and the handle was a little gold knob that showed a small reflection of yourself inside.
I knocked. “Elise…Elise!” I called.
The door creaked open.
“Oh, hi Grandpa,” Elise said with a smile. “Let's sit you down. You shouldn't be standing for too long.”
My sweet Elise was so caring for me., I could not have been given a more loving granddaughter. She led me to the old creaky oak wood stools surrounding the kitchen table.
“Grandpa, was there something you wanted to talk about?” Elise asked.
“Yes darling," I said, my voice croaking with age. “As you know, I am not well and I don't have much time left.” Elise grabbed my hand and held it close; she squeezed it ever-so subtly.
“I must give you something my grandmother once gave me.” I pulled the jar from the center of the table.
“Here darling, this is the jar where I have collected all my seashells and yours. I want you to continue this with another loved one in your life.”
Elise’s eyes turned glassy and a tear dripped down her cheek like a dew drop running off of a morning plant. Elise gently grabbed the jar from in front of her.
“Of course, Grandpa. I will find someone and continue in your footsteps.”
I gently squeezed her hand and gave her a soft kiss on the forehead.
August 16th 2005
I laid in my bed motionless. Life felt so slow today, yet I felt at peace. My eyes flickered. I looked out the window and saw the glassy waters of the ocean, much like Elise’s eyes. The soft sand blew around in the wind as I took a deep breath. My eyes slowly faded shut.
September 8th 2015
Hi, I'm Elise, I was rummaging through grandpa's old stuff as I could not bear to go through it any earlier. I stumbled upon this journal, and I thought to myself… I must continue in grandpa's footsteps. I must keep writing this journal.
As of right now my face is damp. I have had a really hard time going through grandpa's old stuff, but it must be done. I'm unsure of what most of his stuff was for, he had so many random knick knacks just hidden in his room. Suddenly I stumbled upon the jar. I forgot that I was to continue this with a loved one. Luckily, I had not met someone who has made a dent in my heart quite yet. I decided that I'm going to go down to the beach and collect shells just as grandpa taught me, I am going to continue the circle of life.
September 9th 2015
Today I am headed to the beach. I grabbed my old brown cloth sack and wrapped it around the jar of shells. I carried it on my shoulder as I walked just around the block to the nearby beach. I stepped into the warm sand, the sun biting at my skin. The waves were smooth, and the rocks were blurry in the distance. I set down the jar under the same rock that grandpa always used to sit under. The breeze was subtle, but noticeable, it’s as though grandpa was here with me. As I sat under the rock, I watched as a young, random little boy with short brown hair and green swim trunks ran back and forth. He was so cute, young, and free, no care in his mind.
Suddenly he stopped. I watched as he gazed at the sway of the ocean waves. He began to walk closer and closer only to crouch down and pick up a shell. I noticed the shell wasn't all that beautiful on the outside but instead had “character” as grandpa would put it. The shell seemed to be covered in cracks and brown streaks. The boy walked the shell over to a small pile that he had been stacking, one dirty shell on top of the other. I unwrapped the jar of shells and brushed off the sand that got inside the brown bag. I picked up the jar and began walking toward the young boy.
“Hi.” I said, “I'm Elise, I noticed that you were keeping a pile of shells.”
“Yes, I love seashells!” the boy said excitedly.
“I noticed that you picked up all the worn shells and not the pretty ones.”
“Yes, my grandma always said that each speck of dirt, each scuff mark and each crack is a story and how they are all beautiful ones. She said that everything has a story, and should be cherished, even if it's a little rough around the edges.” I began to tear up, waves of love and remembrance filled my heart. He was the one, the one to continue the journey.
“Here, I want you to have this, it's a jar of old shells that I collected with my grandpa when I was young, and I want you to put yours in here.”
The little boy smiled widely as I gingerly opened the jar. He took each shell and one by one set them inside. He was so gentle and treated the shells as if they were as delicate as a feather. I carefully shut the jar and handed it to the young boy.
“Thank you, Elise,” the boy said as he took the jar of shells and scurried off to find another. My eyes filled up with tears and my heart grew full as I knew that the Circle of Life was in good hands.
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