The Hour Before the Salt Tide

The enamel paint on the railing is chipped green. I walk the coastal road, the air tasting of wet sand and diesel. A stranger wearing a navy jacket stops the gravel path. He holds a drawing, crayon on white paper: a square house with three peaked roofs. The drawing is mine, from when I was seven. His eyes hold a specific flicker, a recognition that pulls taut, stopping my breath in my throat. He knows the curve of the eaves. I move past him, the salt spray cool on my neck. When I turn back, the gravel path is gone. Only the sheer drop of the cliff remains, and the road continues, uninterrupted, running parallel to the water.