a short story
A woman deals with the grief of loss while living with her sister on the shoreline.
Salt
by Jeremy C Kester
Sea spray soaked the air in salt. She stood on the shoreline, her hair a blend of white and the dark of dampness. Thickened strands blew this way and that, obeying the orders of the wind.
Her arms laid across her chest as though a shield from the winds before her, cradling the damp cardigan against her frame. Her eyes focused out to the horizon, her mind loose to ride among the waves. Though she stood in stillness, she felt the climb and drop of the water before her.
Sand was wet beneath her feet. It swirled, charging then retreating with the froth of breaking water. She stood firm, allowing the sand to envelop her feet with each movement of water.
She closed her eyes and took a breath. Salt filled her lungs. Part of her felt like it was lost out on the water, unable to return. Grief its only companion. She wanted to seek it out, to drown, to lose the rest of her to the turbulence, a relief from the greater turmoil of walking upon the planet. Swimming to oblivion welcomed her, tempted her.
Eventually, she turned, as though convinced by some unknown force to back away from a ledge. She walked back to the house, a small bungalow situated not far off the sands, behind a small rocky outcropping. Even during storms, its position protected it from the storms regularly battering the shoreline. As each foot landed, the reality situated before her came more into focus replacing the reality behind.
It was a ritual repeated each morning for longer than she could articulate. An eternity wrapped in a finite number of days. Unable to untangle the definitions of either in the face of the question. They were bound together, like her and the salt.
“How are you feeling this morning ?” The voice rose out of the still silence, replacing the howling winds outside. Her sister. The pair lived together, if one could call it that. Living… such a strange concept.
As the click of the door sounded from her entering, the woman thought about the question. Then, she decided exploration of the topic was beyond her mood. She answered a curt “fine” before walking over to the small table and grasping her fingers around the handle of the warm mug.
She poured a small spoonful of sugar into the black liquid, then stirred with less enthusiasm. She thought briefly of the surprising irony how she could not tolerate the bitterness of the brew all the while thriving in the bitterness of remorse.
“You weren’t out there too long this morning,” the sister said, trying to keep the lines of speech drawn before them. It was tricky to pose these inquiries. Tricky to navigate the lines of communication between the two.
Was she out for less than normal? She hadn’t considered it before— the duration of her ritual. Each morning held with it a visit to that spot; she held little to the fact that time passed as she was there, much less to how much of it did so. She shrugged. “I never count,” she admitted, as though it was an expectation.
“I figured it was the weather,” the sister quipped. “It’s pretty bad out there. Lots of sea spray. Your hair’s a damned mess today.”
A hand reached up. Fingers ran through the patchy work of salt and water. Spots felt coarse and dry as others were heavy with the damp ocean. “Yeah,” she said in a dull monotonous voice. “The wind’s strong today.” It was remarkable she even noticed.
Silence took over the brief conversation as each gazed blankly at anything other than the other. Coffee stood in to occupy them in the meantime. She took a sip and felt the warmth down her throat, unable to warm her otherwise.
“I have to work today,” the sister finally said. “Are you going to be alright?”
Alright? What kind of a question was that? The woman gazed at the surface of the coffee, imagining dregs of grounds sitting under the layer of liquid in her mug. She wished that like some prophetess, she could read them to gain some fortune— maybe then she could answer that question.
The sister worked often — the question posed each time she was about to leave. The answer was mostly a shrug. Or a gaze never leaving the window. Sometimes, a nod. Why did she bother asking it each time?
Rather than linger too long in her thoughts, she gave a polite smile. “I’ll be fine.”
As she said the words, she could find no answer to whether she would be. It was still too soon in her mind to determine. Yet she was always fine. If she gave the question consideration, as it was asked the many times before then, each with the definitive answer in that she was there for the next time it was asked. Yes. She would be fine.
A smile came in return as the sister stood and placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Give it some time. Eventually it won’t feel so terrible anymore.” Words said like a reflex each time the answer came.
The woman considered those words before a thought occurred to her: time might heal all wounds, but it sure was fucking slow about it.
She raised her hand and placed it on the sister’s. “Thanks,” she said. She meant it.
“I’ll be home after my shift. Don’t worry too much about anything. I’ll get it when I am home.”
Without her sister, the woman knew where she would be.
Among the waves.
Her body dissolving into salt.
As though it was a given, the sister moved, to care for the woman after it happened. There were no debates or questions on the matter. It was as though, torn from any reason to live, the sister stepped in to provide at least a temporary alternative. Each day, it was that deep notion that someone was back waiting for her, back in the real world, a person was there who still needed her to exist. That knowledge always made her return.
After the sister said her temporary goodbyes and left for work, the woman remained seated, unmoved. How much time had passed? Another hour? Two? She had no idea as her eyes shifted to the window. Every moment disappeared into the fog of emptiness and time. Lost, much like she felt with her mind riding among the waves.
The view from where she sat faced the water. It was like that when they purchased the house so long ago. They all enjoyed the beach and the small town nearby. Seldom did the weather there get much worse than it was this day. A place away from the insanity of the world. That was the past though, an excuse to live in a place that no longer held the bearing as it once had. Now it was the only place she felt still close — where the memories bore of better times.
A place where memory functioned for her, apparently disappearing whenever she attempted to leave — to go anywhere but there. It was strange, how some would welcome memory dissolving with physical distance over time; she never felt able to separate. She needed to stay, to remain close to where she knew them last.
She stood. The mug remained in her hand as she did so, long since chilled to match the temperature of the room. She stepped over to the windows. Even though she was inside and the house remained quiet, she could hear the turmoil of the waves as they crashed to the shore. Wind carried the water even further, as it has while she had stood in the sands. It brought her calm to be standing where she was, only watching. Like the wind with the water, it then nudged her forward.
She placed the mug into the sink, accompanying the rest of the dirty dishes. Normally it was the sister who took care of such matters. Chores. Small tasks to push life along its path. These things felt like impassible paths to her. Like a thick jungle dense with underbrush. No blade or guide to get through.
Each dish sat in the drainer, water dripping from them as the cloud of evaporating water danced. Their dance caught her eye for a moment as she moved to the next dish, passing the soapy sponge over the surfaces. It was a cathartic movement, like when removing the dirt and salt covering her own skin, the kind not attained in the physical form, all being washed away as well.
By the time she finished, she realized her mind had been focused on the task. Almost no understanding of how she began it, only that she had. All the normal occupations her mind held vanished for the short while. Maybe time did heal after all. It was the first moment in a long time they hadn’t been on the tip of her thoughts.
Guilt flowed in and out. Was she allowed to not think of them? It seemed to her unnatural, forbidden, like thinking of them was always a part of her, since before her birth. It was like denying her own existence.
Later, the sister came home carrying a variety of bags. The woman sat on a small patio at the back of the house. She continued to watch the waves pounding against the shore, although the wind had since moved out to sea. An empty mug was in her hand from another infusion of caffeine after completing the chore.
“You did the dishes?” the sister asked. It sounded more surprised than happy, though the woman was certain there was happiness in it, too.
The woman nodded. “It felt like the right thing to do.”
“How do you feel?”
The woman shrugged. The normal impulse was to say “fine”, but she was unsure of whether she was actually fine or whether it was something different— whether she was actually feeling something other than the numbness that had consumed her for so long.
“I’m not sure,” she finally admitted as the sister unloaded the groceries.
“Well that’s better than just saying ‘fine’,” she replied. She paused, a pack of potatoes in her hand. She looked at the woman, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that.”
The woman smiled. It was partly pretend, a motion to put the sister at ease, but genuine emotions rested there as well. It felt good to be prodded in that way. “It’s OK. I appreciate it.”
“Appreciate it?” the sister asked with a small huff. “Wow. It’s been some time since you’ve enjoyed my sarcasm.”
The woman nodded. “I know. I know,” she said. “I haven’t exactly been a good sister.”
The sister looked at the woman with a discerning eye. “Says who?”
The woman shrugged. “Me? Like — I feel that I should have been a better sister to you.”
“Nonsense,” the sister said. “You should know me well enough to know I don’t put up with bullshit. You’ve been through a lot. I don’t expect anything other than you being here. I can only hope that you get better over time. And if that takes until the end of our lives, then so be it.”
It was a curious thought that crossed the woman’s mind — that idea of getting better. For so long she felt as though she stood in a fog of salt and sea spray, unable to imagine the world any different, unable to imagine back to a time when it was different. Then the day became a reality in what felt like a sudden blink of her eye — like a single step was taken after standing in stillness so long she became petrified.
“I guess I never thought about it.”
As the groceries found their way to their spots, the sister sighed. “How could you? Why should you? I didn’t expect any of that. I only hoped that time would lessen the burden on you. It seems it did. Besides, the alternative was to send you off to one of those psych places — like a hospital or something. You definitely could have gone there. But I didn’t want to lose you to the system. I don’t think it would’ve been right for you anyway. You needed time and family.”
The woman sat with the words. Time and family. She knew what they meant as intimately as she knew the taste of salt on the ocean air. Yet it seemed there was a hole in her life where both existed at one time. A large portion of both were obliterated— gone from even the concept of existence.
Years ago felt like forever ago and yesterday. Both eternity and presence. They were there and then gone, now only present in the confines of a memory, a few neurons exchanging salt ions as their faces rise to her consciousness. Maybe it was the salt of the sea that kept them alive to her? It was a ponderous thought. They weren’t there, though. Never to be again except in memory. And that was what she couldn’t seem to scrape off her skin.
The guilt of it.
Simply put, she hadn’t been there with them when they died, her children and her husband — their childrens’ father — the loves of her life. Its sole purpose; her soul’s purpose. It was wrong, her still being alive. Even though it seemed there would’ve been a chance that she could have been the one survivor anyway, the seat she normally sat in being empty and untouched. Was she meant to endure life without them?
“I’m talking too much,” her sister said. Her face was red, her brows furrowed in an embarrassed expression, as though concentrating on what to say or not to say.
“No. You’re fine,” the woman said, her voice straining to find the tone of comfort — though the feeling seemed ill-fitting. Again, another smile of attempted reassurance came.
“It’s all right. I just am getting a little excited to see that you are up and moving is all.”
A shrug came in response as the woman refocused her attention back out to the water outside.
Like earlier, she could see the swells of the water and the spray as it clashed with the rocks along the shoreline not far from where she liked to stand when watching out there. She imagined she was there now — then her mind snapped out of it with a sudden curiosity. “How was work?”
Her sister hummed as she was placing the last contents of the shopping back into one of the nearby cabinets. “It’s always the same. Half of it is enough to pass the time and the other half just wipes me out dealing with all the bull — wow,” she said with a sudden realization.
“What?”
“You haven’t asked me about work since—”
She nodded, knowingly. “Since before you moved here to take care of me. I know.”
It was odd to think all these actions were so simple not long ago. Although, it felt like an eternity — an eternity out on the ocean waves, among the dissolved salt. If she thought hard enough about it, that’s what it felt like, like she was the salt dissolved out in the water, unable to coalesce into anything meaningful. But time appeared to gather her together. At least enough that simple concerns appeared legitimate once more, such as how to thank another for their help.
“It’s a lot all at once,” the sister continued. “And don’t get me wrong, it’s all that I could have hoped for.” She stepped over and stood before her, gripping her hands. “I expected little signs every so often. It’s a lot to take in that you’re almost—”
“Acting human?” she replied, the corner of her mouth straining to form the hint of a smirk. It was an exercise formed more from disuse than from inability or lack of desire.
“Yes. Yes.”
The pair hugged and the woman noticed her sister crying. She felt curious to it. It was a weird feeling to be the one standing there in stoic repose rather than the one either weeping in misery or in total emotional shock. When they finally let go of the embrace, the woman gazed upon her sister, thankful in the moment that she had the support there for her.
Gratitude felt strange to her. Like an ill-fitted shirt, though she knew that it was something she once wore comfortably. Years change brought it to that point, like discovering an old piece of clothing once wore in the lithe, thinness of youth that once vows to fit in once again. Only it isn’t the work of exercise that stands to enable it, but the work that heals over time.
The woman’s sister wiped her eyes. “Look at me getting all emotional. How about we eat?”
The woman smiled. She knew though she’d be back out on the sands, the salt building up in her hair, the wounds were healing, and there were fewer days remaining she’d need to go out there, looking beyond the horizon for the souls she lost so long ago.
Photo and words copyright © 2026 by Jeremy C Kester – all rights reserved.
Note: this is also cross-posted to Poetically Unlicensed on Substack.
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