Salt Quarters

We kept our summers in mason jars, the lids rusted shut with salt air, and the light inside turned amber like a word you almost remember.

The tide came in with its cargo of kelp and broken crab shells, depositing small fortunes along the wrack line that no one thought to collect.

My grandmother's hands smelled of brine even in December, her knuckles swollen around the knife that opened oysters the way a question opens a room.

Now the house leans into its pilings, each wave subtracting a syllable from the conversations it held. I press my ear to the clapboard and hear the ocean rehearsing its one note.