The Ocean Still Says Her Name

The ocean leaves shells behind. The people we love leave stories.

Sandy.

That’s her name.

And boy, do I miss her.

As the sound of the ocean waves breaks against the shore and the shells roll onto the sand, I’m reminded that she’s still present. Maybe not in human form, but in the breeze by the ocean that makes my hair dance in the wind, just like her laugh used to make my head toss back.

Ah-ha-ha-ha.

I can still hear it.

The sand beneath my feet is soft and fine, yet gritty at the same time. It reminds me of her stories. Stories of her and her friends, the women we lovingly called The Golden Girls.

Those stories deserve a book of their own.

The kind of stories that got funnier every time they were told.

The kind that became part of our family.

The kind that still make me smile when I think about them.

The water bubbles and sparkles, full of life, just like her personality. Honestly, her Halloween costumes alone could prove that. She never met a theme she couldn’t fully commit to, and she never walked into a room unnoticed.

If you met her, you remembered her.

And if you loved her, you were lucky.

I always wanted her to feel seen.

To feel heard.

To know she mattered.

Because life hadn’t always made that easy for her.

The world and some relationships had already left their marks.

So I tried my best to remind her.

As I walk the shoreline, broken shells brush against my feet.

At first glance, they’re imperfect.

Cracked.

Weathered.

Worn by years of tumbling through the tides.

But they’re still beautiful.

Maybe even more beautiful because of what they’ve survived.

Standing there, I can’t help but think that’s true for people too.

For my mom.

For me.

For all of us.

We spend so much time trying to hide our cracks.

Trying to smooth the rough edges.

Trying to convince ourselves that healing means becoming whole again.

But maybe healing isn’t about becoming who we were before.

Maybe it’s about learning to see beauty in who we are now.

The ocean has a way of reminding me of that.

Of her.

Of the stories that still make me laugh.

Of the love that never really leaves.

Of the pieces of people we carry long after they’re gone.

The ocean leaves shells behind with every wave.

Maybe that’s what the people we love do, too.

They leave behind stories.

Laughter.

Lessons.

Little pieces of themselves that wash up when we least expect it.

And every broken shell beneath my feet reminds me of the same thing:

Broken doesn’t mean less beautiful.

Sometimes it means you’ve survived.

And that was always true of Sandy.

Maybe that’s why the ocean still says her name.