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.