The Light That Wouldn’t Die

My dearest Elin, (or whatever name they now allow you in the afterlight), Forgive my ink — it trembles as if it, too, remembers the night the sea roared like a widow and the flame began to sputter. The oil ran dry, Elin. They all said: “Let it go dark.” But you knew, didn't you? What darkness births when it drinks from our shore. I told them the lighthouse was a symbol. I lied. It was a seal. A lock. A mouth I dared not let open. And when they stopped the shipments… When the wick gasped… I came to you. They said you were too gone for grief to hold. They never heard the hum in your bones when the sea called. Never saw your eyes flare when the tide turned. So I… I unburied you. Drew from marrow, from memory, from every vow you made me whisper as the cancer took your lungs but spared your heart. Elin, your blood made the best oil. It burned blue for weeks. And I swear — when I climbed the tower that night, the flame spoke your name. Even now, your hum stays in the beams. Your lullaby wrapped around the horn's low cry. I kept the light alive, my love. Just like I promised. Forever yours, The Keeper

Author’s Note:

This poem-letter was written for the “Deranged Lighthouse Keeper” unofficial Vocal challenge hosted by Laura Pruett. Thank you, Laura, for the hauntingly brilliant prompt — not only did it stir something eerie and poetic, but it sparked an entirely separate story idea that I’ll be saving for a rainy day. As I wrote this, I couldn’t help but imagine a group of kids — maybe on a Goonies-style adventure — stumbling across this letter beneath the floorboards of a long-abandoned lighthouse. What if this confession was just the beginning? What if the light never truly went out?