Inventory of a Lighthouse Keeper

He counts what the night leaves behind: one gull asleep on the railing, the salt-stiff coat of his father, a lamp that has outlived three coastlines.

The sea arrives in its old argument, gray vowels breaking on the rocks, and he answers with the only word he keeps — the slow turning of the light, again, again.

Ships pass like rumors he cannot confirm. Some nights he forgets which beam is his and which is the moon laying its plank across the water, inviting him to walk.

By morning the fog has eaten the horizon the way years eat a name from a stone. He boils the kettle. He winds the clock. He keeps the small fire of being awake.

What he guards is not the harbor but the idea of someone returning — a hand on the door, a wet voice asking if the light was ever meant for them.