Somewhere on a beach in Quebec, I start digging a hole.
I don’t go swimming with the other campers. I’m not a swimmer. More importantly, as a thirteen year old girl, I’m not a swimsuit wearer. I sit on a shaded part of the beach, next to a patch of grass and a tree. In the sand I find a stick, and using it, begin to dig a hole straight down. I am possessed with the digging, with no intentions of castle-making or fort-building.
Six or seven inches down, the stick begins to show signs of wear. Bending and splintering. I keep digging. A narrow hole growing darker and darker. I hit something. I use the stick to work my way under the something, lifting it out by moving it against the walls of the trench. In my fingers it’s unidentifiable, covered in sand. I wipe it down to find a glass bead. The prettiest deep blue.
For a little while, somewhere on a beach in Quebec, I believe in god.
