What Salt Remembers

The cliffs at Dunmore eat themselves at night. I watched a woman press her palm flat against the chalk as if to stop it, as if a hand could hold what tide undoes.

She told me her mother had stood here, same ledge, same angle of the wrist — the body repeating its gestures long after the reasons have gone.

Below, the sea pulls at loose stones with the patience of something that has never needed to be patient, that simply continues.

The chalk leaves white residue on skin. She looked at her hand for a long time. Then she licked it — salt, she said. Like everything, in the end, like everything.