I bring the light. From my tower by the seaside, my job is to shine a light for weary travellers, so that they may find their home. Although the waters may be rough and the winds unkind, our family lighthouse guides sailors into the warmth of their loved one’s kitchens, their bellies already grumbling at the thought of the soothing soup awaiting them. They’ve been dreaming of the smell of their wife’s hair as they’ll wrap her in a tight hug, as if daring the universe to try to keep them apart again.
And it’s my job, as keeper of the light, to make this happen. I bring the light, and imagine the squeals of joy from children as their father makes his way through the door, his face - albeit more weathered and sun kissed than the last time they’d seen him - beaming as he scoops them up in a hug, as if they were fish and his arms the net.
I leave a light on for travellers, those coming home and those seeking refuge on our shore. This has been my family’s job for generations. The villagers look to us as if we were the light itself. They’re always quick to welcome us into their homes for a meal, or to sleep in one of their beds if the night is dark and a storm is raging, remembering that it was our lighthouse that brought their sons home the last time the skies opened like this. We graciously accept these kindnesses, but know it is our duty to bring the light. A duty we perform with gratitude, humility, eagerness, and care.
After all, although the lighthouse has been in our family for generations, many years ago, we were guiding sailors in a much different way, using our voices to lure them to their watery graves.
They say it’s so that we can all feel we have a purpose. A sense of belonging. A reason to live.
They say before the vocations, people were aimless, slothful, lost. Floating around from one dead end day to day post to another.
Or, they were scrambling over each other, doing anything to get ahead. Sacrificing time with friends and family, all for the sake of a job. As if a title could give them the meaning in life they were missing as they wasted everyday moments for the sake of an illusive goal.
Before the engineered vocations, there was competition and strife and jealousy. There were castes of people based on their roles in society. But once the government was able to genetically alter our DNAs to make us better suited for certain tasks, there was no need for anxiety, back stabbing, envy, or comparison.
But sitting in the doctor’s room, as the door closed behind her, I can’t help but wonder at how different her life must be from mine. With her crisp lab cost and scribbling handwriting, her sage comments knowing immediately and intrinsically what was wrong with me…I know I could never have the brains for that. It’s not in my nature.
They say it’s better this way. For each of us to have our designated purpose. They say to be grateful. They say choice is the enemy of peace.
But for the first time in my life, waiting for the doctor to return, I wonder what vocation I would have chosen for myself if I could.
The life of a cat isn’t always easy. Humans think we lounge around all day, waiting to be fed, disappear, and sleep. We’re no real bother to them, so they assume we have it easy.
That’s simply not true.
I’ve been a stray, sulking around crowded streets hoping for crumbs. I’ve been left in the wild, to fend for myself and my siblings, climbing trees and chasing mice to our hearts’ content.
But I’ve also been a beloved pet to the richest family in Japan, having my every need and desire met. I was pampered, my fur the silkiest it had ever been. I dined on caviar and fresh tuna and washed it down with the thickest cream.
But still. Nothing in my three lives so far could have prepared me for the feeling when Ryko-chan picks me up.
“I will name you Chichiro!” She declares. “And you will come home with me and I will love you forever!”
Her parents laugh behind her, happiness painted across their faces as they dote upon their daughter. I’ve become very good at reading human emotions.
A warm feeling like a ball of sunshine spreads from my chest throughout my body. As I look into Ryko-chan’s wide eyes, I know I will do anything to make this little girl happy.
This will be my best life yet. I hope it’s a long one.
He slides up to me at the bar, all bold confidence and charmingly lopsided grin.
My heart stops somewhere on the way up my throat. I swallow it back down, willing my stomach to stop competing for gold in gymnastics.
“Would it be too cheesy to ask what a pretty girl like you is doing all alone at a bar?”
I square my shoulders, put on Confident Abby, and smile back at him. Confident Abby never shies away from a conversation with a stranger. Confident Abby is sexy and mysterious and her stomach is definitely not doing summersaults right now.
“Can’t a girl go to a cowboy themed bar in Glasgow on her own?”
He grins, settling into the seat beside me.
“And are you enjoying the view?” He gestures vaguely to the array of cowboy garments and poor line dancing.
“You gotta give them credits for committing to the bit,” Confident Abby replies. “I could also ask what a guy who looks like he came straight out of outlander is doing in a cowboy themed bar. But I trust you have your reasons.”
“Outlander eh?” That has him smiling even more. “You’re not from here are you?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Guess.”
“American?”
I roll my eyes.
“Ah, Canadian. Sorry.”
“Make it up to me by buying me a drink?” I don’t know why I’m going along with this. He has no idea who I am. But Confident Abby is on a mission and wants to see how far she can take this.
“I was gonnae ask if you’d come dance with me? Give you a chance to prove your skills before getting a drink or two in ye.”
“Did your accent just get stronger?”
He smiles bashfully, the first hint of humility painting his handsome features.
“Usually works on foreign girls.”
“And how many foreign girls have you been with?”
He takes my hand and guides me to the open dance floor. “How about we get to know each others names first before taking about body counts?”
“That is a very smooth way of evading the question.” I’m not ready for him to ask my name. I’m not ready for the reaction I know will come.
“Seeing as you’re intent on this sexy bit mysterious bit, I’ll go first. I’m Jack.”
Tim McGraw starts playing over the speakers. The dance floor is immediately swarmed. Jack spins me into his chest, keeping me close from the crowd.
He’s got the kind of natural dance skills that come from knowing you’re attractive. At well over 6 foot, he’s already the centre of everyone’s attention, and his curling ginger hair, stormy blue eyes, and wicked grin come together to make him irresistibly magnetic.
Confident Abby flickers as I move with him, our bodies flush as the music picks up.
“I’m Abby,” I saw over the noise.
“Abby,” he says back, feeling the way the word sounds in his mouth.
Suddenly he stops dancing, looks down at me.
“Wait…”
Here it comes. I beat him to it as Confident Abby evaporates.
“Yeah. We’ve done this before.”
The music stops.
“Shit.”
I stare dumbfounded as the inky symbols swirl on Hannah’s arm, before stilling into place. They seem to hum, like the deep breathing of a sleeping dog. The black lines undulate, pulsing against her tanned forearms, forming a spiral.
“Pretty cool, huh?”
“How did…when did…” I stammer.
“Night before my twentieth birthday. My mom said she got hers around then too.” Hannah can’t stop staring at the tattoo, which days ago, hadn’t been there. There had been no signs, though I guess that was to be expected.
It came at different times for everyone, but the appearance of your soul mate tattoo was certainly an event to celebrate. Much more exciting than starting your period. It let you know that you’d be loved, that all you had to do was look for the person with the matching tattoo and you’d be whole.
The waitress places a teapot and cups down on our table. I risk a glance at her forearm. It’s practically a sleeve of tattoos. I try not to stare at the number of faded symbols. The tattoos are never wrong. The ink only fades when your soul mate leaves this earth. I quickly look away before she can catch me staring.
Hannah must mistake my silence for envy, because she quickly places her hand on top of mine.
“Don’t worry, Elle,” she says, in her ever reassuring tone. “I know your ink will come soon.”
Hannah, with her mousy hair and colourful clothing, the poster woman for kindergarten teachers, the sweet, innocent, people pleasing, perfect, nurturing, kindest soul - could never guess my secret. To be fair, this is the first one I’ve kept from her. Ever.
I can’t meet her gaze, eyes wide with concern.
“I’m sorry…I shouldn’t be bragging…”
I have to stop this, before she spirals. “No no, Hannah, of course! This is so exciting! I’m happy for you!”
But even as I say it, I feel as if the spot just below my rib cage is burning, as if the inky design is searing itself into my skin, branding me for ignoring it.
What choice did I have? When the tattoo arrived a few weeks ago, I was ecstatic. I felt like I’d finally been allowed into a club that had previously been closed to me. That I too was now protected from having to search for love, but the comforting knowledge that fate would guide me to my soul mate.
Until the second tattoo appeared, moments later, this time on my forearm. Insistent on being known and seen.
I hadn’t told anyone about either inks, hoping that by ignoring them, I could will them to disappear. That hasn’t happened yet.
I tug the sleeve of my sweater down, even though the ink is already covered. The symbol feels scratchy, as if rebelling against being hidden. Being inked is a blessing. A safety in the knowledge that someone will love, with fiery passion, resilience, and comforting strength. It is a promise that you are not alone: you just need to be found.
So what does it mean to have two tattoos? And why does it feel more like a curse than a blessing?
The space between stars is best described as longing
Two dazzling figures, close but never touching Knowing that if they do, they’ll burn too bright An all consuming love that alights At first offering warmth and glow And then Breathtaking Overpowering Extinguishing
The stars consumed by their own want and need for each other Kept apart by the distance between For their own good So that they may each shine brightly For themselves And for others
The space between stars is best described as longing For even celestial beings can’t always get what they want
Find me down the garden path I’ll be waiting, my fingers tapping nervously against my thighs I’ll roll my shoulders back, hoping to loosen the tightness beneath the shoulder pads of this rental tux Find me down the garden path Standing next to my brother Risking a glance across the aisle to your best friend, wondering if she’ll have the same tell tale signs of oncoming tears in your her eyes Find me down the garden path Past rows of our closest friends and family Everyone we want here with us on this special day A day we’ve been building towards A future we always wanted together Find me down the garden path And let the rest of our lives begin
The feel of flour wedged between fingers The starchy sweet scent of potatoes wafting through the air The heat radiating from the old hob warming the room Turning our cheeks rosy The tinny sound of Italian music playing through old radio speakers The smell of garlic and fresh tomatoes wafting from the sauce pan, bubbling as the fresh pasta dough rolled between our hands It was the perfect Sunday in nonna’s kitchen
