"Do you want me to bring you anything back from California?" he asked.

"A monarch in a large, clean pickle jar with a branch or two for its perching pleasure so I can remember a warmer time," I replied.

Andrew said he didn't have a pair of earmuffs that small. Try again.

"How about a sand dollar slightly broken and bleached but still holding a dove so I can remember a more peaceful time?"

He said, "When beautiful things break its because there's more peace than the thing can contain. Sometimes, even peace has to spread its wings and fly."

The sand dollar I desired couldn't exist.

My mind skipped from coral-colored sea stars to little knots of redwood cones, bonfires on the beach, a friend's guitar ... I thought of the booming waves behind my old back door, the series of masts crossing the hazy horizon.

"How about a big, black barking thing with whiskers?" I asked laughingly, remembering the lopsided, neck-bending, tear-shaped, slick, fat sea lions under the pier. "I want to remember a more playful time."

He said, "To make it suitcase friendly, I'd have to have it freeze-dried."

And with that thought, I changed my mind. About all those things I thought I wanted, including him.