What the Tide Keeps

The tide pulls back its long gray hem and leaves behind what it can't carry— a knot of kelp, a crab shell halved, the imprint of a wave in wet sand already filling with the next.

My grandmother's hands smelled of salt water even in her kitchen, even in winter. She said the sea remembers everyone who has ever waded in, holds their shape a moment, then moves on.

I used to think forgetting was a failure. Now I watch the shoreline rearrange itself without apology, the sand accepting each new configuration as the only one there ever was.

Somewhere between the wave and its withdrawal is the only moment anything is true— the heron standing still as held breath, the light breaking apart on the surface, and then the light.