Salt Workshop

My grandmother kept a jar of sea salt on the windowsill where morning pressed its full weight through glass, and the crystals held small prisms she never thought to name.

She worked with her hands always — kneading bread, mending nets, pulling silverfish from tide pools with fingers that understood the language of wet stone.

I watched her dissolve a pinch into broth that filled the kitchen with something close to weather, the steam carrying distances I was too young to measure.

Now I stand at my own window where the light falls on nothing I have made with such patience, and I wonder if the salt remembers the ocean it was taken from,

or if, like us, it simply learns to season what it's given.