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| From the Diary of a Beachcomber By Kristine Ong Muslim |
The sea is never like the unspillable surface of the lake. It whirrs and turns. It will never stop. I
let it be.
Most days, I find oddly shaped driftwood. There's the wooden squirrel, the petrified woman, the
soaked skin.
The shells have all been stolen by the tourists, all have been left to dry inside marble-tiled
bathrooms or glass paneled sitting rooms. I hope that the tourists will remain content of pilfering
those husks, that they will not be tempted to place a conch shell near their ear and listen to the
sea's secrets.
I have collected out of the sand these fragments of colored pebbles. I take home only the ones I
like. I keep them with the box of ghosts I stash under the stairs. The ghosts do not make a
sound. Only the pebbles rattle at night.
let it be.
Most days, I find oddly shaped driftwood. There's the wooden squirrel, the petrified woman, the
soaked skin.
The shells have all been stolen by the tourists, all have been left to dry inside marble-tiled
bathrooms or glass paneled sitting rooms. I hope that the tourists will remain content of pilfering
those husks, that they will not be tempted to place a conch shell near their ear and listen to the
sea's secrets.
I have collected out of the sand these fragments of colored pebbles. I take home only the ones I
like. I keep them with the box of ghosts I stash under the stairs. The ghosts do not make a
sound. Only the pebbles rattle at night.
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