I reach the beach where Grandma played as a girl, I imagine her discovering agates, pocketing each tiny miracle. Walking the boardwalk, my shoes pinch, out of place. Will glass cut me? Is there too much trash? Kneeling, I unlace, shedding this petty armor. Skin to sand, I know she's here. And there—an agate! Small, luminous, imperfect. I know she’s here— in the stone, in the breeze, in the rhythm of the tide. I walk down to the water and cry. I walk up the beach and sing.