Walking alongside the Caladesi shoreline with my niece was a sweet feeling. Sand swept hair flickered in our eyes as we stepped, toes sunken in sea. We carried with us two small buckets which were cozy enough for a few seashells to sit.  I was voracious and superficial in my selection of mollusk protection- only stopping to hoard big, glossy, and spectacular ones.   My niece was different. She cradled most delicately the ugliest of fragments. Ugly because there is no word better suited.  They were precious to her, beautiful even. While I glanced in awe, which sprung from disgust, I realized. My niece, in her callowness, saw the pieces as lovely merely 

because they were shells.