When my sister returned from her study abroad trip in the summer of 2017, she brought me a piece of green sea glass and told me that it was from Omaha Beach in Normandy where the infamous invasion by the allied forces took place. She described the sinister stillness of the area and its poignant contrast to the beach’s bloody history, buried after so many decades within its sands and dunes. She told me of the overwhelming austerity, and if she hadn’t known what happened there, it would be just like any other beach in the world. As with all former battlegrounds, the years brush over them and just like a fresh palate, they return to their quiet state of natural antiquity. I always wonder if the unaware visitor would sense any sort of uneasiness or restlessness in places like that, ignorant of history. When she was finished, she placed that piece of sea glass in my palm, looked up at me and said, “sea glass from Normandy.” 

That small piece of glass held more than just color and salt and it told a thousand stories with the blood of a generation. Maybe it was the piece of a bottle that someone drank from to pacify the horrors and hauntings of that era? Perhaps it was under a soldier’s boot as he ran up or down the beach while under the metal rain of bullets and siege of bombs? Whatever the story was, I knew that it was not limited to one. I held it for awhile and then put it in a Ziplock bag, and with a Sharpie wrote “Sea Glass From Normandy.”