This morning I made my way down to a beach to make coffee. The view of this new expanse of blue looks like the one I’m used to—if anything it looks smaller. I question if I actually drove all the way to the ocean or if I took a few wrong turns and accidentally ended up in a heated desert dreamscape. I question if this isn’t just a lake and that I still have miles to drive, until a beacon pops up; it is there and then not, there and then not, the water’s surface like a whack-a-mole table. It rises again down the beach and pauses. It turns and surveys, like it’s looking for something, the sun glinting on the top of its wet shiny head. And I swear it looks at me, confirming that even though this place is identical to home in many ways, it is actually wildly different; confirms that I did drive all this way to a brand new place, a brand new body of water. I wonder if it saw my tears glisten in the morning sunlight?
Jess Waldbillig
Jess Waldbillig is a young writer from Northern Minnesota who doesn't know what she is doing. After graduating with degrees in writing and communication, and working a few different jobs—some in her field, some not—she embarked on a six-month solo road trip throughout the American West in 2024. Most of her poetry is inspired by the places she's travelled, her home near Lake Superior, and her complicated feelings surrounding her relationships—familial, platonic, and romantic—with people and herself.
Other writings can be found on Substack: