I love this imperfect shell.
I found it somewhere in Panglao, Bohol.
Sometimes, I wonder: If the shell were not imperfect, if it still had its complete parts, would I have picked it up?
Probably, not. In fact, somebody would’ve picked it, place it in a basket filled with other “perfect” shells, and take it home. That somebody will soak all the shells in lukewarm water, and then clean it with a fine-toothed brush. Then set it down to dry. When all of the shells are dry, that somebody will place each shell inside a pretty plastic wrapper. It will be taken out into the streets, the park, the ports and pier to be sold to local and international tourists.
“Shell, maam. Souvenir, sir.“
And when I come across the shell-selling vendor, I might spare a glance and go. I will not look back. And my would’ve-been-shell will never know how it is to be caressed by a curious, little human. And my hands will never know how an imperfect shell feels.
Then again, I wonder: Is this how all imperfect beings find their way to their significant other?
Or is this just another story that I’ve concocted to comfort myself and make me believe that being imperfect isn’t so bad after all?
Racquet Zone, Apas, Cebu City