Age of Salt,
by Maria Christodoulou
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I was born where the earth itself does not know where it ends. Some named me an island, some a coast, and others a border; no one, ever, asked me. I carry in my flanks harbors that changed flags, cities sleeping beneath layers of dust and mute prayers. At night, I still hear the footsteps of those who left; they echo in the dark, and I do not know if they return in secret or if memory is playing its final game with me.
They called me a woman because I learned to give birth to life, even when everything around me insisted on dying. And yet, do not be deceived. I am not passive patience; I am not silence. I am the salt that stubbornly remains on the skin when history pulls back like a wave, leaving the truth bare.
And I wait. Not for salvation. Only for that moment whe...
