Last Pattern in the Sand

The sun slips toward the distant waterline as the tide starts to rise. I
calmly mix more water and sand and let it dribble between my fingers to form
another spire. My pile of seaweed is almost gone, but I will have enough. I
have plenty of shells for another walkway and doors and windows. The tide
keeps rising but it doesn’t matter. I built higher up the beach, above the
last waterline.

’It’s time to come back to camp,’ yells my mother from back in shore. I

pretend not to hear.

I keep putting the shells and seaweed just so and add some bits of

drift wood I found. I can’t stop now when I am so close. The tide has reached
the edge of the pattern that marked the boundary, but I don’t care, I keep

A shadow falls across me. ‘Why do you keep drawing, the tide will just
wash it away, it’s a waste of time,’ said mother. I don’t look up so she
turns away and walks back to camp.

‘Then I will just draw it tomorrow and build the spires again,’ I whisper,
hurrying to finish the last pattern in the sand.

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