It’s dinnertime and I can’t focus yet again. Outside the window, in the great view of the sea - little sparks light the darkness.
I touch my fingers to the glass, trying to see through the black veil of the night.
High above, the beacon doesn’t shine.
I see a reflection of the boy - me, this brown-haired and wide-eyed menace. He’s imagining how to speak to them - the lighthouse fairies, as they flitter and dip and turn.
Would I turn my head and follow them with every nod?
“Eat your dinner,” mother calls.
The scrambled egg dish before me would never catch my interest, nor would the intrusive scent of vinegar on the salad plate.
I just want to hold the hands of the guiding angels - the fairies that will bring me light long after the beacon goes out.
