I knew her when she was a thought that escaped my head, I knew her when she took to crafts of the paper and the thread,
I knew her when she took to war and the people’s “righteous” calls, And when she would aid her heroes before their final falls,
I knew her when she grew a tree of olives the first time, I knew her when she was praised in music and in rhyme,
I knew her when she took that girl, and turned her to hair to snakes, I knew her when she had no time or tolerance for mistakes,
As you watch your daughter grow, you often say “I knew her when”, But I can truly say I know every version of her she’s ever been
In many ways, love is a competition. You may not believe me, but it’s true. Who does the most for the other? Who says the most “I love you”s and really means it? Who remembers to change the empty toilet paper more often? Now some people think the best way to win is by doing the big point items: big dinners, tickets to plays, movies, concerts, or lavish gifts. And the truth is, those may get you pretty far in the short run. But those aren’t sustainable in the long term. No, the real winners know that it comes down to small, but consistent acts of love that win the long game. A morning cup of coffee or tea prepared just the way you like it, or a small, gentle massage of your back when you comment on your long day at work. It’s in these daily acts of kindness and care that we see people winning at love. And though it may be hard to be beat in matters of the heart, take comfort in the knowledge that when someone loves you in this way, looking to secure that victory, everybody wins.
Of all the gifts society has taken from the Greeks, None convey relief and comfort like that honest shriek, To be in doubt, or consternation, rifling in the plot, When then, at last, an issue saved by solution you forgot, The mind is burdened by its thoughts in our most trying times, But feels the weight lift like loosed stone when thinking realigns, And so it stands to reason when one almost starts to quit, That should they spy that crucial piece cry: “Eureka: I’ve found it”
It’s a question often asked and leads people down different paths. Religion, literature, astrology, myth have all provided answers and yet none is any more powerful or accurate than another, as far as we know. Perhaps we find Elysian Fields in a place where the sun is always warm and the nights are always cool, the smell of lavender drifting to our noses. Or perhaps we become nothingness, dissolving to dust and food for the earth, an unending blackness. But I believe that we live through those who come after us, as the paint in the canvas of the artist, the splatter of ink on the pages that will stand against the test of time. I believe that we go where we are needed, and are received with relief and joy. These things I believe, but I admit I do not know.
A world of things I wish to say, But know I’ll never speak I keep them in my hiding place For fear of seeming weak.
These thoughts that bubble in my head, But I keep them bottled tight, I think I’d rather end up dead, Than let them see the light.
For every thought I’ve dared to breathe, I’ll have withheld a score, It’s not in my nature to deceive, Only to avoid a coming war.
I recognize the monumental task, I must put upon myself, To measure each word before I ask, For something bettering my health.
I cry and cry and cry again, “It’s too much, I’m going under” Yet here I sit and shall remain, Left with my words to wonder.
So remember this, I would request, And take my words to heart, That at my worst I did my best, To hide my pain from the start.
It occurred to me this evening As I was driving on my way Watching the leaves of fall and The macabre decorations sway
All the things we’ve come to fear The things that make us hide our eyes All the monsters that we shy from Are the phantom death in disguise
There’s those that now return from death The skeletons and ghosts and zombies too And those by rites that conquered death The mummies and vampires true
The things that wait beyond the veil Demons, eager to bring punishment Even the monsters beneath our bed Are death waiting where the shadows went
For what is death but a great unknown A question waiting to be answered And these monsters, but a wild guess By us mortals quite enamored
So when you think of your Frankenstein Your werewolf howling in the night Remember that it’s a mere thought Of that specter beyond our sight.
October 13th, 2:48 am. At the top of the lighthouse, Lightkeeper Dom rests their foot on the bottom protective railing, leaning on their arms as they search through the mist. If anyone else was up at this ungodly hour on their boat, and could tolerate looking at the rotating light, they may see the intermittent silhouette of the lightkeeper looking out to the horizon. Looking for them.
When Dom took the position of lightkeeper 30 years ago, they were warned of the… unusual circumstances of this particular lighthouse. Aside from the unique layout of the coastline requiring them to reside on a small island some 2 miles from the main shore for prolonged periods alone, Dom was also informed of several disturbing and horrific accidents at sea near or even on the island. But something about this area makes these wrecks come back, constantly searching, trying to return home but forever trapped by the invisible line of the island. At several times throughout the year, every year, Dom meets these lost souls at the pier of the island. They provide supplies- offerings given by locals in the nearest town who are aware of the spectral visitors- and their services as an ear to listen and an expert of the tides to guide the boats back on their way.
The vessels and the spirits aboard them are as varied as the fish in the sea. Dom frequently encounters small fishing vessels of long dead locals, private boats of deceased rich families, hell there are even two pirate ships that Dom helps every year, though the respective captains would loathe to know the other ever arrived on the island. But today is the hardest day for Dom. Every October 13th, at 3:00 am, a small raft drifts toward the island. This early morning is no different. Dom’s strained eyes finally settle on the vessel and they rush down the stairs to the ground level. Once there, they spy the familiar faces of Victor and Evelyn coming toward the dock. Dom takes a deep breath.
“Ahoy,” they call walking to the end of the pier.
“Oh, thank heavens,” Victor cheers, “Maybe you can help us. Our boat crashed and we’ve been adrift for quite some time. Are we… are we finally ashore?”
Dom sighs and shakes their head, “Almost, but not quite. Here,” Dom hands Evelyn a canteen of water, which she and Victor gratefully drink from. “If you keep going a little while longer, you will see the shore.” Dom gives the practiced lie fluidly, after 30 years they’ve learned exactly what to say and how to say it to not make the situation worse. But this particular lie is the hardest. To know that these poor people survived a shipwreck, and floated for who knows how long, only to perish tragically at sea. It’s profound in its spirit of hope and its sadness.
Victor looks in the direction Dom points and nods, solemnly. “Almost there, Evelyn. Just stay strong,” He turns again to Dom, “I don’t suppose you have a sturdier vessel, or some food, which we could make use of, friend?”
They again provide the practiced line, though this one is true. “Unfortunately I’m ferried out here, and I’m not due for shore leave for another 3 months. However, I do have some food.” Dom goes to a nearby shed, placed near the pier specifically for their ethereal guests, and pulls out some jerky and fruit. Again, Evelyn and Victor gratefully take the food.
Evelyn looks up to Dom, tears in her eyes, and says “Thank you for your kindness, we will make sure the townsfolk know of how you’ve helped us.”
There’s a moment of silence, Dom’s least favorite part, before they say “Please, don’t mention it. I’m happy to help, I wish you safety to the shore.” They know the raft will never make it. But as they watch the raft disappear back into the chop of the water, Dom can’t help but sigh in relief. This interaction is done for another year.
Despite these interactions, Dom has stayed for 30 years, the longest consecutive lightkeeper on record. Even the lightkeepers who have come out to take over during Dom’s short leaves don’t tend to stick around. But Dom can’t imagine anything else. There’s a sense of…peace in this life. That they could give these souls some respite from the tides is a calling they happily accept. Even if for a moment in time, only once a year. They sigh and make their way back up the stairs. The sun will rise soon, and Dom will go to bed. But for now they sit in the scanning light, reaching out in the darkness, looking for any more souls that may need guidance.
I close my eyes as I start to float, In that space between the stars, I’m just a speck, a tiny mote, On track for Jupiter or Mars,
This seems a dream, but I know it’s real, As I drift to some unseen port, It’s strange, how at peace I feel, As my suit drains life support.
I waft untethered through the black, From my ship, my Earth, my home, I know that there’s no going back, But I do not feel alone.
For the stars, they watch with idle gaze, No need for explanation, It’s here that I will end my days, Lacking fear or destination.
