Light A Candle In The Night
I never knew how much I’d miss living on the water. Somehow, I was never really alone, with tides, clouds, sailboats and submarines, and even oysters to watch as day turned to night. There’s always something happening on the water, and it all kept me a sort of distant but tangible company. Now, living in a stone house with beautiful views over 11th century towers, I feel more isolated. History whispers all around me, and in the daytime winter-vacationing tourists traipse through the cobbled streets, but at night, it’s quieter than anything I’ve known. For days the mistral howled, and it reminded me of the ferry wake and the tidal surge that filled my ears day and night on the island. But the wind has finally died away, thank goodness, leaving a deafening silence in its place. On the island I eat dinner while looking out at passing boats, birds, and occasionally otters and seals. Here, I need to light a candle every night, in order to have something that moves, something to look at when I raise my eyes from my plate and my Kindle, something alive. There’s no fireplace here, or I’d certainly light that, just for the flicker of companionship. I’m alright, really, and I’m not complaining. I read, I write, I walk, shop, spend time with friends. But still I’m alone enough to find comfort in the small brightness of a candle. I’ll take it where I can get it.