fairy dust

I sifted sand from the Oregon shore through my fingers this morning. A row of sun whitened sand dollars sit on my deck railing. When they are lifted for closer view, a little stream of Oregon sand creates a tiny mountain, like an hourglass without the glass. As time has trickled away, so has much of the sand, but there was still enough there this morning to slide through my fingers; cool and silky glitter dust. It makes me think of fairy dust and wishes. I need only clasp the smooth, round sand dollar to hear the sea gulls cry on the wind, to feel the cold, firm sand under my feet. Memory is our fairy dust and we can travel with wings the winds of time.