Salt Diary

The tide keeps a ledger no one audits, columns of driftwood and broken kelp, each entry salted shut before the ink dries.

I found a jar of sea glass on the sill where my grandmother left it decades back, every shard worn to the shape of almost-forgotten, green and amber, cool against the thumb.

She said the ocean remembers what we throw away and gives it back kinder than it was. I believed her the way children believe weather— completely, and without needing proof.

Now I walk the strand at low tide, reading the wrack line like a sentence that keeps revising itself, never settling on a period.

Somewhere beneath the surface the salt is still working, smoothing every jagged thing into something the hand can hold.