They note eye color, and measure height and weight. They examine throats, inspect ears, check the state of teeth. They monitor heart beats, document genders, and write down ages. They record the ... [+]
For the past ten years, the great lighthouse was my life. I did not consider it just a job; rather, it was a partnership I had with the house. I was the guard of it, and it was the keeper of me. It was a simple, deep, stark white tower on a fist of black rock, and I lived inside it.
The lighthouse had one eye, just to symbolize it had one mind, one purpose, and it was mine.
During the daytime, it behaved like a lamp, and on the very top, behind the giant, diamond-cut Fresnel lens, it was complex, and an oversized bulb of gas and filament. But as the dusk ended, it used to wait for me. As I climb the spiral stairs, and the iron under my shoe starts singing, and I flip the switch.
The eye would open.
It would come to life with a low hum and a heavy thunk as the motor began to turn. And then the beam. A solid, piercing blade of white light would slice through the twilight, beginning its endless circle.
I didn't just see the light; I saw in its eye.
I saw the soul of the machine. In its beam, I saw its character. On clear nights, it was a calm, steady sweep. It was a guardian, a serene and confident presence that said, I am here. You are safe.
On nights when the fog rolled in, so thick you couldn't see the water from the lantern room, the eye changed. The light became a soft, glowing presence, a diffuse halo. It was no longer a sharp blade but a broad, gentle warning. It was the eye of a patient friend, whispering, Be careful. Move slowly. I am still here.
But during the gales, it was a different being. When the wind screamed and the Atlantic threw itself against the tower with the sound of cannon fire, the eye was furious. The beam would cut through the horizontal rain, wild and frantic. It was the eye of a warrior, a bright, defiant shout against the chaos. I will not be moved! I will not go out!
I had seen everything in that eye. I had seen its calm, its patience, and its rage. It was the most alive thing I knew.
Then, the email came. "Automated." The service was being modernized. The tower was being retired from active duty, to be replaced by a skeletal steel frame with a solar-powered LED a mile down the coast.
My last night, I climbed the stairs. The air was still. The sea was glass. There was no wind.
I stood in the lantern room, my hand on the cold brass of the lens housing. The silence was heavy. I looked at the lamp, still unlit. It was just a bulb. Just cold glass.
At 8:17 PM, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, I flipped the switch for the last time.
The hum started. The motor turned. The light flashed on.
I stepped out onto the narrow gallery that ringed the top. The beam swept over my head, a silent, white wing. It passed over me, crossed the dark, quiet water, illuminated the mainland, and returned.
I watched it. And for the last time, I saw in its eye.
There was no storm. There was no fog. There was no fury, no patience, no calm.
The beam cut through the perfect, clear darkness. And for the first time, it looked... empty. It was just light. It was just a motor turning a lamp. Its fight was over. The soul I had seen in it for two decades—the warrior, the friend, the guardian—was just a reflection of the sea, a reflection of the weather. A reflection of me.
The new automated light blinked on in the distance, a sharp, tiny, soulless pinprick of white.
I watched my light, my tower's eye, until the sky began to turn grey. It didn't look defiant. It didn't look sad. It just looked tired. Its purpose was gone.
At 5:30 AM, I went back inside. I flipped the switch.
The light went out. The motor spun down. The great eye closed. And this time, I knew it was for good.
We stay in places and we love that area, but we also love with people and why it is hard for us to not to love them?
I appreciate you sir a lot