After the Sound of the Tide

For the summers, the voices, and the shoreline that time quietly carried away

On my grandmother’s porch,

there was always

the sound of a wind chime.

In summer,

the tatami carried the scent of the sea,

while an old electric fan

slowly turned its head from side to side.

That town had an ocean—

not bright blue,

but a quiet, faded gray.

On the breakwater,

there were rusted bicycles,

stray cats,

and fishing boats returning at dusk.

Back then,

I believed

time would stop there forever.

But people disappear quietly.

My grandmother’s voice,

the fish seller in the shopping street,

the drums that echoed during festivals—

all of them drifted away

before I even noticed.

Now the station is lined

with new buildings,

and convenience store lights

bleach the night white.

Still, sometimes

I return to that town in dreams.

The feeling of wet sandals.

Ice clinking in barley tea.

A distant ship horn

crossing the evening air.

Memory is strange.

The things we lose

are the things that remain the clearest.

I can never return

to that summer.

My grandmother is gone.

Even the scent of the shoreline

has probably changed by now.

And yet,

when the wind suddenly stirs

through my quiet room at night,

I feel as though

a wind chime rings somewhere far away.

And deep inside my chest,

the vanished town

rises once more

like a returning tide.