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Looking at the calendar this morning I realized that twenty days have passed in June.  The quilts are still out on the sofas and the boots on the boot rack.  As I refreshed my interiors to lighter fair, I reached into the cupboard for the bag of seashells that I place in a bowl every summer.  This time as the shells filled the interior of the bowl I welled up with emotion.  The shells were picked up on the beach by my Dad and I every spring on Barefoot Beach in Florida.  I have treasured the increasing quantity and diversity of shells every year.  As I marveled and sorted through the shells I remembered Dad holding up a large one, smiling and nesting it deep in his pocket.  He would wander over to me with a handful of treasures and ask if I would like them.  As I nodded he added these to his pocketful.  Visiting Dad yesterday on Father's Day in the Alzheimer unit of the nursing home, the hands that sorted through the sand, prodding for a shell, no longer function with dexterity. The eyes that looked up from the sand on the beach,  the mind that knew I was his daughter no longer registers, the eyes now searching for our connection.  The number of shells will remain static in my bowl as summers roll on from here.  I will look upon the ridged shells as a reminder of our trips to the beach.  Picking up shells and being known and loved will be what I see in my collection of hand-picked shells.