The Salt on the Skin

The air near the tide always tastes of cold iron and crushed shells. It is a sharp, metallic tang that clings to the back of the throat, reminding the lungs of their own fragility. I remember walking until the soles of my feet grew numb, the wet sand pulling at my heels like a heavy, grey blanket. There is a specific friction when the ocean retreats—a gritty, rhythmic rasp of pebbles tumbling over one another, a sound that vibrates through the marrow of your bones rather than your ears. It is the feeling of being unmade, of the land slowly surrendering its edges to the hunger of the deep. We spend our lives trying to stand firm, yet the body knows the truth: we are mostly water, waiting to be pulled back into the swell. When the wind turns, does it carry the scent of where we began, or the promise of where we will eventually dissolve?

Ronnie Glover has captured this quiet surrender in his image titled At the Water’s Edge. The way the tide meets the shore feels like a conversation between two old friends who have run out of words. Can you feel the chill of that spray against your own skin?