Of Shells and Angel Wings

New Year's Eve and I'm standing on the beach with my toes in the cold, frothing surf promising things that can't be promised - shouldn't be thought of even since they are just future failures waiting to happen.

I found angel wing shells earlier today - blue and purpley smooth on the inside encased in a rough black exterior. The two sides fold in on eachother joined by a thin supple spine. When opened, each side looks like two halves of a chipped and barnacled heart.

I laugh. "A metaphor for me?"

The shelled heart appears as one entity - weathered but resilient. I pocket it and continue to comb through the collapsing tide for jewels and hermit crabs. Later, after we leave the humid beach and the shells dry, I see the tumbled halves are waiting to snap free from one another. Each are plain without the other. I think of this as the darkened sky lights up with the red pops and silver snaps of fireworks shot haphazardly by people on the pier. One misses his aim and the beach erupts in green glitter stars.

Should I notice that my spirit feels as thin and fragile as stray seaweed, my soul bruised and half broken like the coral washing up at my feet? Should I dive into this hopeless fear - of being lost, of being forever unhappy - and experience yet another journey toward renewal and rebuilding?

The tide makes me feel small. I want to be unruly, to gain control of the moment, be wild, be free again. Instead, I drink too much and throw up for the entirety of the first day of this brand new year. As I bend over the bowl, I catch a glimpse of my face in the water and wonder when I became so ordinary.