Tidal Inheritance

The ocean keeps returning what it borrowed— shells smooth as forgotten names, glass worn down to its honest blue.

My grandmother walked these shores, collecting the fragments of storms. Her hands knew the language of breaking.

I carry my own losses now, small as pebbles, light as kelp, letting the waves decide what stays.

The water takes and takes, and we call it forgetting. But nothing disappears—it just learns to float.