Brief Candle

The flickering light of my late husband’s family lighthouse spoke to me, as though in morse code. Cursing me? Good. I sucked in a fury of sea air.

A nice gentleman shuffled out of the house onto the porch. I couldn’t identify his uniform – a crime scene investigator or possibly a police officer; the day had held a revolving door of uniforms and equipment and questions.

“Ma’am, do you need somewhere to go tonight? Someone to stay with?” He asked me.

With you? I briefly thought.

“No that’s fine. I need… to be here.” I cooed.

“We’re going to find your husband. Unfortunately, lots of people go missing on Halloween.” He offered fruitlessly. “But we’re putting our best men on this case.”

I smiled at him gratefully, but I could have belly-laughed. There’s no such thing as a good man, let alone a best one.

I smiled weakly. He returned a stronger one and bowed out.

For low tide, the waves were wilding that night. I thought of King Canute, the bratty one that thought he could order the sea away. Men think they can make orders, boss anything near them around, and then collapse in a too-late catharsis when it comes back to bury them.

The lighthouse before me flickered to get my attention back. Glimmering ferociously, as though the light itself were screaming to get out.

Turning away, I waltzed through the halls of my home. I set a candle against the windowsill, its long stick perfectly mimicking the lighthouse tower in its background. I struck up a match and lit the candle, letting it burst into a wild dance on the wick. In the meanwhile, the candlelight’s larger counterpart—the kerosene lamp of the lighthouse – continued to dance around my husband’s dead, crumbled body stored by its side, creating the most beautiful shadows against my home. A place no one would think to check, a spot no one would climb up the reeking stairs to investigate.

A place I could look out and watch the light scream forever.