Clarity

 We were at this one beach a couple of months ago, a place well-known for agates washing ashore.

 Agates, semi-precious gemstones, are tiny gifts from volcanic activity long ago. They wash up on certain beaches along the west coast quite commonly.

They hide among the millions of beautiful wet pebbles shining in the sunlight every day.

There weren't many of us searching for agates that day, but there was this one guy who knew what he was doing. We approached him and asked to see what he'd found. He opened his fist and said, "This clear stone here? It is by far the oldest. Only the old ones have clarity." I wish I'd taken a picture. He had a single crystal clear gemstone in his hand. It looked like a diamond, sparkling obliquely with all of its edges rubbed off.

 Clarity. I thought it dissolved with time.

 Things become less black and white, don't they?

 Memories fade.

 I don't know, though. Maybe there's some kind of distillation that comes with age.

The young search for clarity.

  Does it develop with time?

 Meanwhile I watch the clouding eyes of my old dogs. Clarity?

All that really seems to matter is the warmth of an old friend and a soft pillow for one's head.