What the Salt Flats Remember

Before the lake withdrew, it left its name in white— a crust of ancient thirst pressed flat as a held breath.

We drove out past the markers where the road became suggestion, the horizon a seam someone had ironed smooth.

My daughter pressed her palm to the crust and lifted it: nothing, no impression, no warmth taken— the salt giving back only salt.

That night she asked if the lake would ever return. I said I didn't know, which was the first honest thing I'd said all week.

Now when I think of disappearing I think of this: not gone but changed in form, remembering the shape of water by becoming what it left behind.