Various forms of found glass keep crossing my path, old blue jars dug up in the garden, an unusual piece of pirate glass on the shore, a whole little village made of bottles, and at the farmers’ market (on the sprawling lawn of a farmhouse where the owners make our newest addiction: their excellent pizza), I stop by a table where a woman and her grandson sit behind various crafts fashioned from seaglass. Did she find it all herself, is it tumbled, is it all from PEI, even the tiniest pieces because you hardly ever find tiny pieces here... I ask, trying not to sound like I’m filled with suspicion that maybe she isn’t a true glass forager but then she answers, so sincerely, (yes, no, yes, and yes) and the conversation easily turns entre nous in that way it often does when you find yourself connecting with mutual appreciation, a kind of recognition almost, and her grandson, eight or nine, waves from the chair beside her and tells me how he hunts glass with his gran for hours and how he puts what he finds into little glass jars of sand, which he sells for $5, and so I buy one for family in France, who were visiting last year but I’m thinking surely the sand has washed out from between their toes by now and needs to be replenished. And I buy a framed picture as well, tiny seaglass birds on a wire because Cohen’s words are part of the soundtrack of my summers.