A caper jar, tall and lean. I’d pinch them out for a snack. I roll the rack, push jello molds and likewise aside, and pull out the wrapperless glass.
Let fall the pieces of sand, large like rock salt. Roll a bit of blue sticky tack between your fingers and attach the decagon coin. It is silvery-grey, darkened by many hands. On it, a Spanish ship sails the Caribbean. Let us hail Christopher Columbus, the man who sailed to New England hundreds of years after the Vikings discovered it. Still, it’s a mighty handsome ship he has. I stick the coin to a bit of rock to lean it upright.
Coral, like the pronged antlers of a young buck, slip down the glassy side. White seashells follow. They are so tiny as they settle on the sand. Conical snails, spirally coiled; chirality, dwarfed; others, delicate forms, perhaps cowries? “I used to sit on the sand in Florida,” my mom says, “And pick out these tiny seashells from the sand.”
Above all these I fold and curl the bill. Red, faint green, and purpley-blue. There is the Mayan temple my parents climbed: Xunantunich. Toucan and tapir, set in the jungle. I remember. Pictures of a stone mason. A carving of an owl to hang around my brothers neck. His arm is as colorful as this Belizean two-dollar.