A Sand Dollar Prayer The day after Christmas, it’s our tradition to go to Whitney Beach. Today was perfect—73 degrees, no humidity, and hardly any people. It was low tide, the ideal time to collect shells. Not a cloud in the sky. The water was clear as glass. No waves. I fully expected to find hundreds of sand dollars. There were none to be found. It’s been a problem since our bout with three hurricanes in one month—Debby, Helene, and Milton. They forever changed the landscape of the beach...

Merry and Bright This year I made Christmas shell ornaments, and one in particular became a favorite—a decoupaged heart cockle with the words Merry and Bright  nestled inside. I was thrilled with how it turned out. It was large enough to serve not only as a trinket dish, but also as a candy dish—substantial and cheerful, just like the words it carried. After the rush of sending gifts to family and friends, I finally had time to sit quietly and enjoy our Christmas tree, its twinkling lights...

There is something quietly disorienting about being in your seventies while your parents are in their nineties. On paper, the math works. In the heart, it feels almost impossible. Most people my age speak of parents as memories—black-and-white photographs, familiar stories retold, voices recalled rather than heard. Mine are still here. Frail, yes. Slower, certainly. But alive. And that single fact sets me apart in ways I never anticipated. It's a strange intersection of time. I'm old enough...