The Lighthouse Keeper
It rises from the peninsula like a black, rounded obelisk, jutting through the fog, lifting but a memory of its once bright light to sparkle
the distant, salt-stung eyes of tired seamen. The local children swear on crossed hearts that his ghost still haunts its dark interior, tending the light, guiding gaunt mariners
he knows he'll never meet to the momentary safety of the harbor. On moonless nights, in their dreams, the children faintly see the swaying lantern of his final trek
down the steep spiral staircase of his life as he lumbers toward the ink black sea, the children jerking in their sleep to the thudding of his peg leg on each steel step,
knocking on the door of heaven.