By Daphne Gregory-Thomas

Maine in August never disappoints. Day breezes carry a whiff of fall, just enough to savor the waning summer and to pique the anticipation of the blaze of color ahead. Nights are inky canopies punctuated with shooting stars and the glow of an outdoor fire for warmth and gazing.

As we were sitting on the beach one morning, my six-year-old granddaughter grabbed my hand. “Let’s walk,” she said. “Your friend misses her home and we are in it. Let’s find some pretty shells for her. It will help her to remember.”

Her words stopped me. Chattering with others and busy with her marshmallows at the bonfire the night before, she had nonetheless overheard when I said I had a writing friend who was raised in Maine. “She has not been back in a while,” I said. “Sometimes she writes about it. She loves it here too.”

I never said how I met my friend, who, like me, has been on the journey of an unwelcome diagnosis, harsh treatments, and full surrender to a measured life. I never said how my friend writes of fond Maine memories, reflecting on the joys of the past in order to help her navigate the difficulties of the present.

My granddaughter made no apologies for rousting me from the comfort of my beach chair and good book, taking precious time from one of our last vacation days for a purposeful beach walk and treasure hunt on behalf of someone she never met and likely never will. The mere mention of my friend’s homesickness that floated in the air the night before evoked her boss girl resolve, and I was just along for the ride.

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As we combed the tide pools, her keen eye found smooth, unbroken shells so this friend could enjoy whole memories. Joyous in her mission to share with a stranger, she gathered them in her red bucket. She took her time, finding different shapes and sizes as if to conjure up varied memories for the recipient of these gifts.

Then they were rinsed, cleansed to pure and white, and laid carefully on the porch. Once dry, she tenderly wrapped them in a bag and made me swear I will give them to my friend, soon. “Tell her these shells came from the same ocean where she grew up. Tell her they are like a visit. Tell her the shells remember her too.” She asked for a pinky promise, and I wrapped my finger around hers and never want to let it go.

Later in the day, back in my chair, my good book does not summon me. I pondered a more important story as I watched her swim in the cool water and jump the waves with her older brother.

I wondered, as she grows, if she will forget this brand of consideration that a child feels and adults forget too soon. I wanted to stay in that place with her forever, as she clutched a red bucket of precious shells for an unknown friend. I wanted her to keep reminding me of how to care and share and play nicely with others, because I, like other grown-ups, often fail to remember.

I wanted her to stop in time, to always hear the bonfire words, to keep combing the beach, to go on teaching how bringing gifts to strangers will make the world a better place. For this, I wanted the shells to remember her too. She does not know that this was an act of healing, and I will never tell her. It was simply an act of grace, and that is all she and I and my friend ever need to know.

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Daphne Gregory-Thomas spent 45 years as a high school educator in New Jersey and New York. Her focus was on working with students with and without disabilities in their transition to the post-secondary world via her award-winning self-awareness, self-advocacy, and career-awareness internship programs. She believes her professional success was a direct result of everything her students taught her over many years. She was diagnosed with cancer soon after she retired, and then became a patient-to-patient volunteer at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in New York City. She is also a participant in the Memorial Sloan Kettering Visible Ink Writing Program.