The battery is almost dead, so I stop and remove the bit. Forty seven! Man, those were a lot of holes for a small drill like ours!
Wanna turns on the water. We wash the shells one by one. We don’t speak. It’s ridiculous, I know, but I have this fear that the sound will disperse the faint scent of sea coming from the bucket.
Wanna unrolls the hose, and I spray the concrete under the working table.
full summer moon
we take down
the sign “beyond repair”
Years later, I publish an article about the risks of inhaling white dust.
©Tzetzka Ilieva, 2016