The memento I used to keep of dad
was a photograph of him and me
when I was little, walking down a hall
in the high school where he taught English

rows of lockers on either side of us
like parts of the mind where memories live.
My small hand in his, we were silhouettes
against daylight through the glass door exit. 

One day I realized I am older now 
than he was when this picture was taken
which made me kind of uncomfortable
so I decided I would replace it 

with a whelk shell bigger than my fist
and the color of a storm-tossed, foamy sea
we discovered while out for a stroll at dawn
on a beach in North Carolina. 

The morning we found it, as the sun rose
above the horizon, a dolphin pod 
swam by close to shore, several of them 
leaping from the water with apparent joy - 

the splash of their bodies against the surf
the rhythmic spray of their exultant breath
still resonates inside that spiral shell 
when I hold it to my ear and listen.