beige, and oddly shaped. It looked organic. Natural. Like something that had once been alive.
My sister’s reply came through: “Those are hermit crab shell fragments.”
I stared at the screen. Hermit crab?
“The one he had two years ago,” she continued. “Remember? He was so excited. It died last winter. You guys buried it in the backyard. Those are pieces of the shell.”
Hermit crab. Shell. Backyard.
I sat down on his bed, holding a piece of shell, and burst out laughing. Not a happy laugh. A relieved, slightly hysterical, “I’m an idiot” laugh.
Of course. The hermit crab. He’d had it for three years. He’d named it Mr. Pinchy. He’d built it a little habitat with a heat lamp and a spongy water dish. When it died, we had a small ceremony in the backyard. My son cried. I cried. We buried it under the dogwood tree.
He
