Brihanna Malone

Surf breaks against the seawall outside my workshop, lifting the smell of salt and motor oil into the open door. The sign above reads “Sea Glass Dreams,” letters once turquoise, now faded like everything this season. Inside, trays of conch-shell pendants and frosted bottle shards catch the light, but no footsteps follow it in.

I am fifty-four, born in a clapboard house in Nassau, Bahamas, and I have shaped jewelry longer than some tourists have been alive. For years cruise ships spilled their passengers onto Bay Street, and my counter became a reef of curious palms. This winter the big boats shift routes, leaving only gulls and the occasional backpacker. Rent does not shift with them.

I polish a necklace made from a Coke bottle cracked by Hurricane Dorian. The green glass holds a swirl of sand; I wrap it in silver wire tight enough to keep memory inside. My hands remember storms, storms remember hands.

At noon a couple pauses at the window, phones lifted. They admire, they swipe, they drift away. I count inventory, then count again, as if repetition could summon buyers. The radio offers talk of global markets, numbers rising somewhere else.

Myles, the mailman, brings a single letter—electric bill due. He asks if the sea glass well has run dry. “Plenty glass,” I answer, “just fewer eyes to see it.” He nods, places a BSD on the counter, chooses a coral earring for his daughter, and leaves with a smile larger than the purchase.

The tide falls. I lock the door and walk the beach with a canvas sack, searching for shards in the fading light. Each piece glints like a promise the sun hasn’t forgotten. I imagine new settings, new customers, new stories whispered over the counter.

Back home I pour sweet tea and spread the day’s finds across the table. Colours bloom under the kitchen bulb—teal, amber, sunset pink. Worry sits beside me, but so does the quiet thrill of creation. Tomorrow I will open the shop again, sand still in my cuffs, hope folded small but unbroken.