We were digging for hours, the sand was thick and wet from the torrential downpour from the evening before. The trees were towering over us, looming and mocking our capabilities. Sand between our fingers, beneath the beds of our nails, I was tired but Sue swore it was here. The funny thing is, that sometimes our memory leads us down a laneway with a dead end. Sometimes we believe we’ve placed our keys on the hook by the front door, yet they are actually still in our purse. Sometimes we remember that our mother’s favourite flower is a daisy, yet we are surprised to find out it’s actually a sunflower. Sometimes the mind buries our memories in odd places, wrong places, and sometimes the memory itself becomes damaged. And for as long as we searched for that damn box in the sand at the playground where we grew up, just like a fickle memory, it was lost. Sue looked up at me with dirt smudged across her chin and diamond tears streaming down her face. I couldn’t admit to her that I thought she had been at fault. I couldn’t tell her that the last forty five minutes had been a complete waste. Instead, I too shed a tear. A tear for the memory lost and the box of our childhood dreams disappeared. And with a quick wipe of my face, I plunged my hands beneath a fresh mound of sand.