by Karen Heard
****
It has been forty-one nights since my father left and, after another bulb blew last night, I am down to just two. For some time now, the waters have been rising, their advance upon my haven an almost imperceptible ripple closer every day. It is only in these last few weeks that the windmill has failed to pump the island free of the encroaching swamp. Our little jetty is almost submerged under the growing tide. If Father were to return now, he would have trouble mooring the boat. If he does not arrive soon, there will be nothing to tie it to at all.
The water filter has been suffocated by sand; the tap only gasps for air when I turn it on, and I can do nothing to alleviate its suffering. I have an emergency supply of rations – a small amount of stale water and dried fish – but the forty days so far have been hard enough to swallow. I do not relish forty more of even worse fare.
I do not miss Father. That is the strange thing. I cannot picture us both fitting inside here anymore. But I feel inconsolably lonely, just the same, now that nobody is watching. I pace the lighthouse as I was not able to in Father’s presence, winding up and down the three flights of stairs, round and round like a piece of twine, until I am dizzy and the walls twist in on me.
I have explored all the cupboards and cubbyholes that are usually out of bounds and have found nothing of interest. I have not found a circle of my mother’s hair lopped off and hidden underneath his pillow; I have not found my fairy-tale book mutilated and buried beneath the floorboards; I have not found anything of real value. There is only me and my life here and two bulbs.
I look out to sea now less and less. Only at night do I stand on the balcony and contemplate the desolate undulating of the waves. I wonder now at my life in the lighthouse. I always saw our home as a beacon, guiding people towards us, but now I wonder if it is not a warning, keeping them away.