Elisabeth Writing

(I had the idea for this this while on a ghost tour in Saint Augustine, Fl. The ghost tour guide, Dahlia, told all of us about a woman who became involved in bootlegging alcohol. She would walk to the widow’s walk each night and light a lantern to let the people of the town know it was safe to come to her inn, The Casablanca Inn, and drink. But one day she fell in love, and her man was lost at sea. She began to go each night to the widow’s walk and hold her lantern aloft for her him, the love of her heart. And so here is my own take on the tale of love and loss…)

Tonight, the moon is like the night’s jewelry, an opalescent crescent and black Pearl, the dangle of Jupiter hanging on her dark cheeks freckled with the sheen of stars. I wonder where she’s going to, all dressed up? Will she meet a lover where the sea meets the horizon? Or are they beyond what you or I know? Perhaps it is only her, and the ache of loneliness, the need to drape yourself in jewels and beauty, if only to hear a subtle sigh and the remark that: “My, the sky is certainly lovely tonight.” I understand that empty need. I’ve done the same myself. Or what if she’s lost the One, the Lover, and now tries to outshine herself each time the sun sinks, if only to draw him back to her, waiting endlessly, timelessly beautiful. Their first kiss is our final breath, and yet I can’t help but wish they might have it. A love to end time?

I would wait, for that. 

I imagine I am young and beautiful, the belle of the seaside town. I kick up waves and wish I could outfit myself in such a way, liquid lines and frothy white sleeves. I would pin starfish in my hair and sew shell buttons in the back, for only the most patient of maids to do up. I wander the beach, while my heart waits. For what, I don’t know. I stand, just beyond the sea’s gentle touch, and look out across the miles of turbulent turquoise. I yearn. It is a siren song, and I only wish I knew who might hear it, the wish in my conch shell pink heart, silent and full of longing. I trail my wishes behind me, like little bits of sand caught in my dress, scattering inside my proper home and settling into the dark nooks and crannies. No matter how often it is swept up, they only seem to accumulate, day by day, little universes beyond what the eye can see. They catch the light and make me smile – and ache. 

The ballroom is lit with beeswax candles, the scent of honey and desire in the air. My dress, not sea-spun, nonetheless reminds me of Mediterranean nights and island storms. I pine for ocean castles in the sand and crab knights guarding the splendor, octopus advisors waving their tentacles in agitation. If I close my eyes I can just make out the scent of salt on the breeze, and I can pretend. And then: the Moment. The Naval Officers in their splendid uniforms, with their solemn eyes. The ladies twittering and whispering. The rest fade when I see him. I am struck. Did I always know of him? Did my soul meet his in some other life? And does his know mine? I twirl through the throngs, radiant and resplendent, as if my heart didn’t shake and sigh within me. I can hear the ocean if I press my ear to it, and the murmur of his name, still too soft to understand.

He finds me, like I knew he would, and asks for my dance card. I wish my fingers didn’t tremble, wish my voice didn’t shake, as he brushes the pulse at my wrist through silken gloves. Together we pirouette, restrained passion, our conversation just provocation.  Our night ends too soon, the impatient sun rising in the distance, those outstretched rays stretched like arms as it yawns, the world at large its to awaken. 

And our story begins.

Proper calls in drawing rooms, chaperones and tea, intrepid glances. Then late at night I sneak out to meet him at the horizon, to drink in the sea. I seek secret embraces and tender kisses; we make promises to seashells and tender tides. When at last he leaves, back to the ship and the life he must live, he takes with him my conch quintessence. I can’t help but weep as we pen letters, and it feels as if I’ve tossed my life, a message in a bottle, into the briny deep. 

Then…

Gone, adrift, vanished is he… lost lost lost to the merciless sea. Did the kraken hunger for meaty bones? Did the sirens sing for the want of souls? Did the Mer take him to their less than humble abode? I walk and wait and wail in woe. 

And on the widow walk I pace, from twilight to night. A lantern in my hand, the wind and sea whipping at my hair, with apologies. Come back to the shore, my darling, come dip your toes in tide pools, let the ocean rush over your ankles, let me whip the sand into tiny twisters at your feet, disperse the grains and dreams. It’s been so long now. The lines deepen around your mouth, your eyes fade, and there are no reveries. Sink deep, sink deep, sink deep into me…

I scorn their voices, the one who took my love away, away, away. I’ll hold this light, up on the widow’s walk, until he comes home again. I’ll hold this light until my aged hands can no longer. I’ll hold this light, his lighthouse, until we reunite again, and dance in the ballroom where it all began.

When at last I am in his arms again, I’ll smile and say: “Now darling, wasn’t that worth the wait?”