Finding Shark's Teeth in Paradise

Greg's mother died last week. I only visited her a few times a year over the past 20 years; still, my world seems off-balance without her in it.

At the moment, I'm sitting in her condo in Florida on vacation. She knew about this trip and so it feels as though she's provided input to it. Some other trip she won't join us. But not this trip.

This trip I'm surrounded by her life. Hats, keys, business cards, books all exactly where she left them when she was last here. The bath towels are neatly folded on a shelf in her closet, bath powder waiting for its next use. A half-used bar of soap is still in the shower. It's been a trip for remembering.

My favorite day was yesterday. After a leisurely morning, we drove to Englewood Beach and met up with my friend, Nancy. There we sat on the beach collecting shark's teeth hidden amongst the broken sea shells scattered on the beach.

The thing about shark's teeth is this: the more you look, the easier they are to spot. And the more you find, the better you feel. I'm not sure why this is, but it's a Zen-like experience. They're like little treasures that make you richer for finding them.

So we collected teeth and talked and watched the morning slip into afternoon. Nancy entertained us with ASL (American Sign Language) trivia and then left to go to Tampa for a party.

After Nancy left, we walked to Stump Pass. Stump Pass is a mile-long state park with no buildings other than restrooms. Seeing this untouched shoreline, one can imagine the world before highrises and beach homes.

Greg's mother once sat on this beach in the middle of winter and painted a picture of herself in a chair looking down the untouched shoreline. That oil painting has hung in her living room in Michigan for as long as I can remember. I always wondered why she 'd painted herself in the picture - she'd never liked to be photographed.

Standing there yesterday, discovering a place I'd never been that she loved to go, I think I finally understood.