Pearly Dreams

I dreamed of pearls last night. My family and I walked through dunes of sand until we reached marshes of tall grass and low water thrumming with life.
We held up a conch shell to our ears and listened to the call of the ocean to show us the way to the shore.
It was a foggy day and the whole way there I collected precious pearls and shells. I cracked open oysters and mussels and dug my sandy fingers into their bellies to find those bright pearls.
I opened so many, my bag became heavy with them.
Some had a purple iridescent shine, some a red hue, and others were pale green, which I imagine a fairy's wings to be.
They ranged in all sizes and odd spherical shapes. Some shells contained only one pearl. While a few were full of them and when I opened them, the pearls would spill out in bounty.
I showed my niece how to know what shells contained the treasure and which to leave behind.
How to crack them open and delicately dig out the pearl.
Some of my siblings trailed behind us while others led the way to the shore.
Not only was my bag full of pearls, but all sorts of beautiful shells, conchs, clams, mussels, and oysters, along with a sheet to lay on and a bottle of water.
In my marshes and dunes, I found buried beach toys: a child's pink bucket and an orange shovel. Forgotten tools someone else had used.
Why did I dream of pearls?
Was it my desire for treasure? Or thoughts of the street I grew up on? Was it because I fear the beach will never be the same or because I hope the change would be glorious? I could crack open life and find it now dull and fruitless…
Or maybe when I crack it open and dig my sandy fingers into the belly of life I will find a delight I never imagined, a treasure I can keep forever.
A pearl I can stuff in my bag to remember the day put it in a ring, rub it like a genie's lamp, and be instantly always content with joy.