The Lighthouse

He walked down the street. When he got to the edge of Point Fermin Park, he stopped and studied the sky.

The stars looked close, bright. Visibility had to be at least fifty miles tonight. Dorothy had read him a poem on a night just like this.

Jake sat on the hard curb and tried to remember more of that evening, hoping none of the details had faded.

That night, they had taken a walk, and when they’d gotten back to the house, Dorothy had come into their bedroom holding a thick book. She’d placed it on the nightstand, carefully took off all her clothes and lay next to him.

A moment later, she picked up the book and turned to a marked page. Her voice was soft, smooth, as always.

“And as silently…” Jake whispered the few poetic words he could remember.

Anguish and hurt gripped his body. The poetry book was still in the house. He hadn’t given anything away because he couldn’t bring himself to do that. He’d find the poem, read it aloud, and maybe more of the memory would return.

Jake fought his tears by turning his face up to the night sky. Looking for a poem his dead wife read to him wasn’t going to do any good. He needed to accept that memories would eventually fade.

But that night, when she lay beside him, naked except for the white sheet, he hadn’t paid much attention to her poem. Even at his age, all he could think about was her naked body close to his.