Today the sea lies as smooth as cloth unfurled from a bolt of sapphire fabric, spread as far as the smudged crayon line of the horizon.
Cloud glowers in fat clusters, but there are faint glimmers of light thrusting through, a surge of hope waiting to burst after a night of torment. I want to see the boat set forth from the base of the lighthouse. I will reach my hand out, feel, even from the shore, the salt-encrusted timber. My fingers ache to touch those splintered flanks, warmed by these first bashful sunbeams.
I scan the water, the milky mirrored surface mocking me. Why should I be afraid of such calm, it appears to ask. It has forgotten how it thundered on the sand, blackening the golden grains that, freshly sifted by the new winds, shift and mould to the soles of my feet. It is aloof to the litter of ramshackle seaweed and driftwood that it cast out with its superior power. It lies there, a pure blue muscle made of water, dormant for now.
The lighthouse looks beaten. Rising proudly, an exclamation mark of red and white punctuating the sky, it now wears its pride like a mantel that is slipping from its shoulders. The mantel is battered and worn. I scrunch my eyes against the glare of the sun intruding through the cloud-mountains. Now the lighthouse seems to falter, like a friend coming with bad news.
Its height seems diminished. It stoops. It leans. It prays for me to be strong. If it could kneel in the gentle foam, like a lace hem lapping around its base, it surely would. It would kneel and beg me for forgiveness.
It appears to point towards a mark on the horizon. The mark is a brown blur. It is a sight that sees me buckle and drop to the shoreline, the water gleeful that it can drench my white nightdress, soaking it with salty tears of shame. It didn't mean to be rough last night. The storm unleashed its fury. Perhaps the gods of the sky held a Bacchanalian feast. Perhaps they tossed their silver goblets of wine across the heavens, sparking flashes that tore through the night. Perhaps they overturned their golden thrones, crashing them down in tumult that roared, forcing the waves to buck and rear like angry horses until my darling husband's boat overturned in the dark, lashed and tortured by the sea that he watches over every day.
The mark on the horizon is a salty-timbered mark. I know he lies broken inside it. This was his shore leave and he couldn't wait for the peaceful morning to arrive. He wanted me so badly that he set forth from the cowering lighthouse in the middle of the night. I sink there and let the treacherous water soak me to the skin.
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.