The Sound of the Sea Glass

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The first time I found a piece of sea glass, I was seven years old and furious with my parents. They’d brought me to this remote stretch of Maine’s coastline after announcing the week before that we were moving—from bustling Chicago to a weather-beaten fishing town no one had heard of. I hated it on sight.

I kicked rocks on the beach, sulking, when a flash of blue caught my eye.

It was smooth in my palm—sky-colored, worn to a silky matte from its time in the waves. A shard of something broken, made beautiful. I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first of many. By the end of summer, I had a jar full—each one a secret story, polished by time and tide. I stopped missing Chicago. Stopped missing my friends. The glass became my new language.

I didn’t know it then, but that summer was the beginning of everything.

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Twenty years later, I stood on that same beach, clutching another piece of sea glass. This one was green. Deep emerald, like a bottle of something expensive.

It didn’t feel like home anymore.

I had come back to clear out the house. Mom had passed in the spring, quietly, in her sleep. Dad had gone four years before. I delayed the trip for as long as I could, telling myself there were logistics to manage, forms to sign. But really, I couldn’t face the empty house. The silence. The memories that had grown louder in their absence.

The house smelled like cedar and ocean salt, just like I remembered. But everything was dustier. Dimmer.

I spent the morning packing books, folding away linens that hadn’t been touched in years. Around noon, I found the jar.

It was exactly where I’d left it on the windowsill. My childhood sea glass, glinting softly in the filtered light. The blue one was still on top.

Something in me cracked open. I sat on the floor and cried.

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That evening, I walked the beach again.

The wind was colder now, but the rhythm of the waves was the same. The sound of it felt like a heartbeat I’d forgotten I shared.

As I walked, I spotted another piece—amber brown, just under the surface of the sand. I bent to pick it up and smiled.

I hadn’t realized how much I needed this.

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I stayed for a week.

Every morning, I walked the beach and found something new: a piece of lavender glass shaped like a teardrop, a rare red sliver, frosted nearly white. I started leaving them on the porch railing, lining them up like tiny trophies.

Then one afternoon, a girl appeared at the edge of my yard. Maybe eight or nine. Barefoot, tangled hair, clutching a shell.

“Hi,” she said. “You collect sea glass?”

I nodded. “Used to. Guess I still do.”

She approached slowly, looking at the collection with wide eyes. “My grandma says it’s lucky.”

“She’s not wrong,” I said.

The girl reached into her pocket and held out a pale green piece. “Here,” she said. “This one’s for you.”

I took it. It was still wet with seawater, edges dulled to near-perfection. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

She beamed and ran back down the path without another word.

I stood there a long time, holding the glass. That evening, I added it to my old jar.

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I didn’t sell the house. Not right away.

Instead, I stayed through autumn, then winter. I fixed the porch swing. Painted the shutters. I opened the windows on warm days and let the sea breeze in.

And every morning, I walked the beach.

Sometimes I found glass. Sometimes I didn’t. But each step felt lighter. More like coming back to something I’d forgotten I needed.

Like maybe, even after everything that breaks us, we can still be made whole again.

Not the same. But something new. Something softer.

Something beautiful.

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