What the Salt Remembers

The tide pulls back like a held breath, leaving its grammar on the sand— commas of shell, the long dash of kelp, a sentence no one will finish.

My grandmother kept a jar of sea glass on the sill above the kitchen sink. Each piece had given up its edges to become something else entirely, something the light could move through.

I have carried certain griefs so long they've gone smooth in my hands, lost their sharpness without losing weight. You can hold them now without bleeding. They are almost beautiful.

The ocean doesn't grieve what it releases. It simply fills the space again, salt finding salt, the way forgetting is just another word for making room.