They say the beach remembers everyone who ever stepped onto its shores.

Looking at these rocks, I started to believe it.

At the bottom sits the disgruntled traveler, broad-faced and split across the brow, looking permanently offended by some delay only he remembers. He spent his life rushing somewhere. The sea, apparently unimpressed, gave him forever to wait.

Only to stumble across a face that  appears trapped inside the stone, its mouth rounded into a permanent oooh, as if the tide caught it in the middle of a gasp and never let it finish.

Near the water rests the mother, curled around her child in a quiet embrace. Smooth pieces fit into one another as though they were made to hold on. Nothing separates them. Not tide, not wind, not time.

And somewhere among them is a smiling pig, because apparently even the shoreline has a sense of humor.

Together they make up the faces of the shore: impatience, surprise, love, joy, and a little mischief, all waiting at the edge of the world.

Maybe they are only rocks. Or maybe not.

The beach has always been good at keeping secrets.