I am in love with the place I destroy each day, whether or not I am here. My fervor does not heal a heron’s injured foot, plastic cinching his talons. My longing for these ocean edges does not alter development or restoration. Rather, I consume life caught from the Gulf, the public wildness points, waves crashing as I fall asleep. Remains of marine creatures become ornaments, necklaces, or crowns. I fill jars with ponderous arcs and lettered olives. Layered mother-of-pearl now lives in the bottom of my coat pocket. I make jingle shell earrings and offer narratives for my post-cremation body. What is so wrong with making use with what is left behind? Dare I interfere with a nursery stump in the Hoh Rainforest? I know little of the ecology of my spiritual home. Inescapably exotic am I along this Alabama coastline. There is no line. The sandy parts we occupy are keys unintended for permanence. Still, I cry when given the chance to witness loggerheads boiling up from their nest. I pray for a pollution-reduced journey to the Sargasso Sea. What does reciprocity look like when I am caught in the net of our own making? Somehow, scattering my ashes over water feels like asking for more.