Shavings and shells, clippings and trinkets. She dusts the souvenirs. These are the places she has been. Photos of the smile behind the camera. On their Honeymoon they drove to Grand Coulee Dam, then to the Sea. They cooked by the roadside, slept in the car. He took black and white photos of songs on the radio. She put them in albums. For years she would forget they were there. He promised her more than he could ever give. She knew that then. She loved to hear his promises. They took out a mortgage. She kept the house clean. They added a bedroom, remodeled the kitchen. He died in his red chair. She can see him there, home from the office. He wears gray slacks and black socks, his tie loosened and defeated, his arms on the armrests. He looks out over the ocean, not thinking, just looking.

Two hours after breakfast, one more until the Help comes. This new one is more friendly. There are things she can't do for herself. More than help, she misses her friends. Her best friend moved to a Home last summer. It was long overdue. She hopes to never end up that way. The Sun moves and she sees more dust. There's always something to do around here.

Their Pontiac had room for the entire family. Not like the Ford they took to the Sea. With work and the kids, and money so tight, they never took the kids on that trip to the ocean. They went to the Sea when they were grown, in the Sixties, with their friends. She wonders what they looked like there. If they played in the waves, on the sand, fed the gulls.

These are the hours she appreciates. She sees moments, in movies, dreams she can conjure. She remembers riding in that Ford, looking out the window, starting on her way.