What the Tide Leaves

The tide withdraws its argument each morning, leaving only what it could not carry — a bottle clouded to milk, one rubber glove still holding the shape of a hand.

My grandmother kept a jar of beach glass on the sill. She said the ocean was practicing patience, grinding sharp things soft the way time will, whether you want it to or not.

I think of her now when the waves pull back with their small retreating hiss, how she turned each piece in the light as if it might still remember being whole.

There is a word in Japanese for finding beauty in what fades. I don't use it here. Some things ask to be held plainly, without the comfort of a name.

The gulls drop their shadows on the sand. The fog leans in from the west. Somewhere behind me, the city continues its long argument with silence.