Beachcombing was our favourite thing, me and Pascal. It was a wild and random treasure hunt without any map or compass, only the rhythm of the waves to show the passage of time. We expected to find nothing... and so every little thing brought more joy than the well wrapped birthday gift... and we'd take them home, cherish them, and tell the stories of how they came to the beach, the taller the tale the better.
The driftwood is soft in my hands and bleached by the salt and sun. It's surface swirls like the eddies of the river that kisses the ocean not far away. I run my fingertips over the ridges and already my mind has turned to a use for this piece. A simple plank for candles perhaps. It has already been made beautiful by the briny currents, all I need to do is add the finishing touches.
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