The Secret Salt of Childhood

We sit cross-legged on sun-warmed cement steps, winter breeze making our eyes water. He wears a yellow and navy sweater; I’m in all white—jacket, trousers, Eskimo hat. Our cheeks, chapped and peeling.

He slips his finger in—a pinch, a pull, a victory. We marvel at its form—sometimes brittle, like the salt crust of a dried tear, other times soft and stubborn, reluctant to part.

He rolls it expertly between finger and thumb.

“Now this has the perfect texture,” he says. An ardent student, I watch mesmerized.

He offers me a taste—briny, like the ocean. A secret, giggling triumph.

Then, footsteps. The porch creaks. Mom appears, camera in hand, her gaze flicking between our hands and faces. I wipe my nose. A reflex. He tenses beside me.

Did she see? Our grins waver. “Smile!” She points and shoots.

The boogers will wait until after dinner.

I was five then. My cousin nine. Our science experiment, our quiet defiance. He made the ordinary feel like discovery—a lesson in taste, touch, and taboo.

If nails are bitten, thumbs sucked, lips chewed … why is this the great offense? The body expels what it doesn’t need … perhaps shame, not the act, is unnatural.

Years later, I tell my daughter the story. She laughs, delighted. She’s tasted her own. I never scolded her. Never pulled her hand away.

One day, she simply stopped, moving on to other wonders, leaving no shame, only curiosity.

The salt of childhood lingers still.