On New Jersey’s aquaculture maps, unfamiliar names shimmer. I am a land dweller, of the shore but not, like a sea glass shard laid across hot sand. City born but relocated, I’m composed of raw edges.
I peer close, then closer, but the labels remain obscure:
Dry Bay.
Obes Thorofare.
Tices Shoal.
Graveling Point.
Unfazed by my interest, the waters lap the shores of hidden inlets, flowing constant in a tongue unknown.
A memory. Raised on man-made amusements, my sister and I walk the beach and eat French fries from the snack bar, purchased with spare change. Our hands glow with peanut oil, wiped haphazard on bathing suit bottoms. Dipped in cool waves, our toes curl. We shriek at the shock of it but wonder little about what’s beyond the jetties.
Waves in, waves out.
Then the release.
This is an exhale.
Published August 7, 2020
Jenn Hall 