Salty

It is my happiest time, in this cool and dark space, where the air rests all around me, and I do not have to think too deeply about why I am here, until …

The air is disturbed as the door opens, letting in the ugly greenish electric light. Her hand reaches towards me impatiently, fingers tickling me possessively. When she realises I have not much left to give, she says, ‘Now I have to go get some more. Damn!’

If only she had closed the door again, leaving me in peace. Instead, she lifts me up and places me on the kitchen counter below. I am alert now.

To her I am a box of Maldon Sea Salt Flakes. That is my day job. My side job is what I am passionate about and I need to get better at it. You see, I am servant to the sea god, though some may have called them Poseidon not so long ago. We spirits of the earth and sea do not need names. If you need a name for us, call us missionaries if you will. 

Salt, water, sea, ocean, waves, tides. Giver of life and receiver of all dead things. If not respected, they will destroy. However, to worship is to protect the immortality to which we all belong. To ignore this truth, is to plunge you into the depths of a meaningless existence. 

There was a time when offerings of gold, goat, saffron and sword were made at the altars overlooking the sunsets above the oceans. The amber rays magnified what was precious across the mirrored surface of the seas. All became one as the offerings were softly illuminated in appreciation of the gods.

Working then was a pleasure. We didn’t need to graft. We had purpose and respect. The word can be spread so much more easily when the subjects are willing. Now, trapped in this box, without the freedom we once had, how can my master expect us to influence in the same way as before? 

The connection was greatest when she dipped her fingers for the first time into my full box of sea salt flakes. There was a dry, gravelly shifting away to accommodate her. In this comforting moment, she could smell the fresh sea air. She imagined the flat sands of Île de Ré extending out so far, covered by the thin layer of ocean, shining faintly orange and grey in the misty late afternoon. One of many special places that have gifted salt to generations gone by.

I am connected to her and to all who worship the salt and sea through space and time. It is dry, very dry in my dark space and I crave the water. It helps me to remember the hub of the trading posts along the trans-Saharan trading routes, exchanging vital salt alongside gold and manuscripts. My job has been served here and I am now feeble.

But I, should I say we or it, cannot die. I use the last of my energy to reach out to my fellow spirit five hundred metres away down the road sitting in their cardboard box in supermarket aisle number two. Good luck.

Thank you. Yes I am here at the front of the shelf. I agree, times now are bleaker than before, and there is no pride in having to compete with the table salt, grains packed in tightly over there in tiny uniform pieces going for the easy wins. 

Some among us think that more sophisticated approaches are needed. Powerful strikes to the earth to create saltwater springs just serve to terrify. I don’t agree. But a job is a job, and I can only do so much. 

Here she comes towards me. She speeds up once she sees me and tenderly wraps her warm hand around me. I realise the limitations of my assignment as she says to herself,

‘Great, now if I can get you in the pan quickly, I can have the spaghetti ready by seven.’