Writings and Rambles #Memoir

I am three-years-old and I’m collecting seashells. My mother takes a picture of me-- it’s now in a frame displayed in our living room-- my brows are furrowed in deep concentration. A strap from my favorite overalls hangs loosely off my shoulder but I don’t seem to notice because I’m too preoccupied with picking through a mound of flat rocks and soft pink shells.