Just out on the deck for a moment this unseasonably warm morning, I find that some of the shells I’d laid out on a glass-top table have been scattered and crushed. This is not the end of the world — I should have put them away months ago. But they looked so pretty on the table, a natural collage, that I left them there way too long.

As I gathered them again to slip into a cup, I marveled at their tiny whorls and notches, at the beauty of their architecture, which is born of practicality. And I couldn’t help but think of their collector, a young girl who was trying to earn a few coins from us on the beach in Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh. She had a shy pride about her, and an eagerness. Once she knew we were willing to pay for shells she took off for almost half an hour, combing through the tide pools looking for the loveliest specimens.

Now I’m thinking of her face when she opened her hands and showed us her collection. Some of the shells may be gone, but that memory has not faded at all.