The Lighthouse

I remembered well what Dad and I used to do in nights like these, when the wind banged recklessly on the storm panes of our fragile lighthouse. I remembered how he’d hug me. I remembered the feel of the ragged cloth we’d use as our blanket. I remembered his laugh. I remembered how it made me feel warm.

On nights like these, I wished he was with me. And I wished that he was still alive.

I entered the lantern room where the huge lamp lay unlit. This was my first night with her — and my first without Dad.

I looked across the hollow flooring and towards the bare night sky. There weren’t any stars up. Not a single one was lit.

I guess I’d better light the first one up, then.

I retreated to the watch room. It was already dark, that I could barely make my way towards the main switch. I groped around the shabby concrete for the cold metal lever. I felt cobwebs and crumbling concrete on my hand, but had no such luck finding the switch. My elbow snapped, and I felt the hard feel by my arm.

I quickly pulled the lever, and across the room, the lantern gallery was engulfed in a flurry of light. And what was amazing about it was the fact that it felt brand new. It felt warm like it did before.

I slowly walked across the creaky floor and made my way to the railing. The sea breeze’s arms wrap around me tightly — but I felt warm — and grabbed hold of the frigid rails before I succumbed to sobs.

The image of the beam of light was blurry from the layer of tears that veiled my eyes, but I thought I could make out the huge beauty from far across the sea. I wiped my eyes free of tears, and I saw him trudge against the valiant waves. He let out a moan.

“Goodbye,” that was what he’d said.

****

Weekend Wordsmith: Whale

Fictionless Lines: Pulsar