Wildflowers for the Lighthouse
And yet, the thought of leaving fills me with a strange kind of dread. Not just because of the upheaval of moving halfway across the world, but because of what I’ll be leaving behind. Our letters, our connection – it’s become something precious to me, something I look forward to with a kind of quiet joy. The thought of not having that anymore, of not being able to share my thoughts and observations with you, to hear about your life on Skellag – it feels like a loss, even though we’ve never met face to face.
I’ve been trying to put this into words for a while now, and I’m not sure I’m doing a very good job of it. What I’m trying to say, Laura, is that our correspondence has come to mean a great deal to me. More than I ever expected when I sent that first tentative letter with the sea aster. You’ve become a part of my life, a steady, shining presence in the midst of all the uncertainty and change. And the thought of losing that, of letting it fade away – it hurts more than I can easily say.
I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know where this path will lead me. But I do know that I don’t want our connection to end. I want to keep writing to you, keep sharing the small moments and the big thoughts, the storms and the calms, the dreams and the fears. Even if I’m on the other side of the world, I want to feel like I’m still connected to you, to Skellag, to the little concrete tower on the edge of the sea.
I hope that doesn’t sound too presumptuous. I hope I haven’t overstepped. But I felt I had to be honest with you, to let you know how much our letters have come to mean to me.
With a heart full of mixed emotions, Cortez
---
17th December
[Transcript of voice memo: 3 minutes 47 seconds]
[Sound of wind and distant waves]
Laura: Cortez, it’s Laura. I’m sitting outside the lighthouse, on the old stone bench that looks out over the sea. It’s late, past midnight, and the stars are so bright tonight they almost hurt to look at. The sky is a deep, endless black, and the sea is a mirror image of it, just as vast and mysterious.
[Pause]
Laura: I got your letter this afternoon. I’ve read it three times already, and each time it’s made my heart clench a little tighter in my chest. Your honesty, your openness – it took my breath away. I’ve been sitting here for hours, trying to find the words to respond, but everything I come up with feels inadequate.
[Sound of a deep breath]
Laura: You’re right, Cortez. Our correspondence has become something precious to me too. More than I ever expected. When I first started writing to you, I thought it would be a pleasant distraction, a way to break up the monotony of life on the island. But it’s become so much more than that. It’s become a lifeline, a connection to something beyond the day-to-day routines and the endless sea.
[Pause]
Laura: I’ve come to look forward to your letters with a kind of quiet anticipation. Seeing that familiar handwriting on the envelope, knowing that inside there will be a little piece of your world, your thoughts, your feelings – it’s like a little burst of light in the midst of the grey. And the thought of losing that, of not having that to look forward to anymore – it’s a painful one.
[Sound of wind rising slightly]
Laura: But I also know that this opportunity in New Zealand – it’s the kind of thing that comes along once in a lifetime. It’s a chance to follow your passion, to explore new horizons, to make a real difference in your field. And as much as I would miss our letters, as much as I would miss the connection we’ve built – I could never ask you to give that up. I could never ask you to put your dreams on hold for the sake of a pen pal, however special that pen pal might be.
[Pause]
Laura: So what I’m trying to say, Cortez, in my own clumsy way, is that you should go. You should take this opportunity and seize it with both hands. Follow your heart, follow your passion, and don’t look back. And know that I’ll be here, thinking of you, wishing you well, and looking forward to hearing all about your adventures on the other side of the world.
[Sound of a shaky breath]
Laura: And who knows? Maybe this doesn’t have to be the end. Maybe we can keep writing, keep sharing our lives, even with all those miles between us. It’ll be a different kind of connection, perhaps, with letters taking weeks instead of days, with voice memos sent across oceans and time zones. But it’ll still be a connection. It’ll still be us.
[Pause]
Laura: The stars are so bright tonight, Cortez. They’re like a million tiny lamps shining down on the sea. It makes me think of all the other lighthouses out there, all the other keepers standing watch over their little patches of coast. We’re all part of something bigger, something that stretches far beyond our own horizons. And that thought – it’s a comforting one.
[Sound of wind and waves fading slightly]
Laura: I should go in now, before I freeze solid to this bench. But I wanted to say this to you under the stars, with the sea as my witness. Go to New Zealand, Cortez. Go and chase your dreams. And know that a part of my heart goes with you, wherever you roam.
[Pause]
Laura: Goodnight, Cortez. And good luck.
[Sound of wind and waves continues for a few more seconds before the memo ends]
14th February
Dear Cortez,
I haven’t heard from you in a while. I hope that means you’re busy settling in, exploring your new home, getting to know the rhythms of a different sea. I imagine you there, on the other side of the world, surrounded by new sights and sounds and smells. The thought makes me smile, even as I miss our regular correspondence.
Life here on Skellag continues much as always. The winter storms have been fierce this year, one after another, like the sea is trying to wear the island down to nothing. The supply boat has been delayed more than once, the poor old thing battered by the waves. But the lighthouse stands firm, the light keeps turning, and the sea pinks on my windowsill are still holding on, a stubborn splash of colour against the grey.
I saw the first puffins of the season today, bobbing on the water like little feathered buoys. They always make me laugh, with their comical beaks and their serious expressions. They’ll be nesting soon, laying their eggs in the burrows on the cliff face. The cycle begins again, just as it always does.
I hope you’re well, Cortez. I hope New Zealand is everything you dreamed it would be. And I hope you haven’t forgotten your pen pal on the other side of the world, the lighthouse keeper who thinks of you often, and wishes you every happiness.
With fond thoughts and hopes for a reply, Laura
20th March
Dear Cortez,
Still no word from you. The silence is starting to weigh on me, if I’m honest. I find myself checking the supply boat with a little too much eagerness, hoping each time that there will be a letter with your familiar handwriting on the envelope. But each time, there’s nothing. Just the usual supplies, the usual faces.
The equinox has come and gone, the days lengthening with each passing week. The sea is a little calmer now, the storms giving way to milder weather. The thrift is starting to flower on the cliffs, tough little pink blooms that brave the salt spray and the wind. I picked a few today, pressed them between the pages of my book. I’ll send them with this letter, a little piece of Skellag to brighten your day, wherever you are.
I’ve been thinking a lot about your voice memo from the storm, the one where you talked about feeling small in the face of the sea’s power. I feel a bit like that now, waiting for a letter that never comes. I feel small and insignificant, a tiny speck on a tiny island in a vast, uncaring ocean. But then I look at the thrift, at the way it clings to the cliffs no matter what the sea throws at it, and I feel a little spark of resilience. The sea may be vast, but we small, stubborn creatures have our own kind of strength.
I hope you’re well, Cortez. I hope you’re happy. And I hope, with all my heart, that I’ll hear from you soon.