Once, I had a seashell.
It was pretty and light blue, rough on the top and smooth on the other side.
I carried it for luck, because carrying something pretty inspired confidence and strength within.
Over time, I forgot to carry it around.
First one day, which I cursed.
Then the next, which I didn't mind so much. I knew where it was.
Then the next, which I was so busy, I barely thought twice.
It sat on the dresser top, slowly being covered in the strata of other found things, old bits of paper and dead insects. I buried it, the pretty thing, with no mourning.