Cutlass
My helm was the lantern room of the lighthouse on Little Brewster Island. There, I stood sentry each night until dawn, guiding ships into the open arms of Boston Harbor. Sometimes I thought of the tower as a living creature and companion. Did she not shiver when the wind blew nor sweat when the humidity rose? She was a sturdy gal not much older than I but just as delicate against the elemental fury of hot summer storms. Without my constant care, she would have crumbled and probably did after I left. But, while we were together, neither bellowing thunder nor skin-piercing rain could match Elena and the eternal tower. We stood our ground in the face of God and remained unmoved. Few experiences are more riveting or more capable of conjuring confidence in a young woman. However, every storm had an end at which I would climb down, plant my feet on solid ground, and the fantasy would break. The tower wasn’t alive, nor was she a friend; she was made of stone and she was my job. That is until she wasn’t.