Bringing the beach to work

This morning I was sitting listening to a talk, when I got distracted by the hem of my jeans. It was slightly turned up, which in the scheme of things means little, but when you are looking for something, anything to occupy you as you politely endure someone else's rant, it seems significant, so I reached to my ankle and turned it down. When I folded my hands back in my lap, they felt gritty and grainy and were covered in sand. I looked at the floor to see tiny grains of rock, crystal and shell spread like icing sugar across the floor beneath my feet.

Last Sunday morning I'd been wearing these jeans as I sat in the sun-drenched sand dunes checking the surf and waiting for Amy to meet me. The sand must have been from then. We had a fun surf that morning.

That memory and all the attendant feelings and warmth were alive in that tiny artefact - trapped in the fabric of my (unwashed) clothing and spilling out simply because I got bored. Its presence there on the floor of that room, so far out of context, made my whole morning.