Cathy Cassidy

« The feathers represent travel and freedom, » he says. « The shells represent home, family. The stones are strength. The seaglass is love, beauty, art. »
(...)
« What about the driftwood? » I ask.
« The driftwood? » Paul repeats dreamily. « That’s me. »
« No, » I protest, but he just smiles, turning a smooth, pale branch of twisted wood round and round in his hands.
« The sea smoothes away all the rough edges, » Paul says softly. « But it bleaches out the colour, the life, as well. Driftwood is different from other kinds of wood. »
« It’s beautiful, » I say.
« Sometimes, » Paul agrees. « Sometimes it can be salvaged, made into something useful or good, like Jed does. Other times, it can’t. It goes back to the sea. »