Her grandmother understood
the ocean more

than she ever would,
no matter how often she returned

to the island. She kept

an hourglass on a table
beside the window

overlooking the shrinking
beach. The front door

faced the water.
The great room

held the ghost
of a cathedral ceiling

from a time before
her grandfather had the atrium filled

with a dormitory
for the three girls.

As a child, she wondered
how her grandmother got the sand

(or was it powdered marble)
inside those oblong glass bulbs.

She never wondered
about the stern-looking tin angel

that stood in the bookcase
on the east wall. Its story

did not concern her
the way those seashell mornings

would startle her awake.
She wanted to pause

those tiny granules
mid-flow. How exactly

did the nearby islands
arise from remnants

of a terminal moraine?
She had no idea how

obsessed she would become
with Uncatena:

the island + the ferry.
A name she could not shake

or trace to its origin.
She merely wanted the hourglass

to reveal the mysteries
trapped within Timmy Point Shoal.