Abalone. Found on some distant beach, empty except for the remains of hitchhikers. Enjoyed for a time, stashed, forgotten, piled on a table with junk. Useful, perhaps, as a soap dish, an ashtray, a key catcher. Just a buck.
A teller of tales, if you look closely. And a thing of beauty.
In the sea, life builds on life. Kelp on clumps of mussels, snails on the kelp, barnacles on the snails, algae on the barnacles. Barnacles on everything, actually. The abalone bears both pink an white barnacles, still holding their shape. Others have broken off, leaving only the white scar of their base.
Tube worms cemented their homes among the barnacles; curlicues, macaroni shapes, masses of tiny shelly bubbles. And snails bored deep holes in the shell to get at the meat inside.
All this can be seen while the abalone lives. But the inner magic is only revealed after its death.
The "scar" where the muscle was attached.
One of a row of "portholes".
I am struck dumb.
