The Lighthouse

I’d like to dedicate this week’s flash fiction attempt to my grandmother, and my husband’s grandmother, and the countless others who have struggled with this disease; to the families that have faded into the background, but still remain constant, the caretakers that come alongside, even if they’re not remembered. This story is for you.

victoria-fallsThe Lighthouse

I stand at the precipice as the light flashes across the sweeping currents. Oceans of emptiness, misty ridges, and forests of oblivion blend into one conglomerate mass that shake my inner core, shattering it—creeping cracks crawling through crumbling crevices.

Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls. All your waves and breakers have swept over me.

Mom, you left the door open last night. The whispers plague me. Doctor visits, the dreaded diagnoses. She’ll need a full-time caretaker, you know.

I study the wrinkles that crease the back of my hand, the age spots that dot the surface. I do remember the whisper of cherubic lips on my cheek, pudgy fingers offering dandelion bouquets.

I don’t understand why I can’t find my children. I search the panorama, but they’re hidden in the mists.

Deep calls to deep…

Only one thing remains constant—the light in the mists of oblivion. All your waves and breakers have swept over me.

I close my eyes and step over the precipice. Tumbling, flying, falling, I hit the emptiness, the ebb, the pull of current. The world says I am lost; I’ve forgotten and will be forgotten.

I wipe the tears from my eyes and swim toward your light where home lies beyond.

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