When I was in Samos I learned that a small island in the strait between Samos and Turkey had been up for rent. The only thing on the island was a lighthouse.
Today my sensing librarian hand happened to pick out Lighthousekeeping by Jeanette Winterson. I didn't reread it. I went for the beginning and the end:
"Remember you must die" (Muriel Spark)
"Remember you must live" (Ali Smith)
...
I stayed at the lighthouse until the day was done. As I left the sun was setting, and the full moon was rising on the other side of the sky. I stretched out my hands, holding the falling sun in one hand, and the climbing moon in the other, my silver and gold, my gift from life.
My gift of life.
My life is a hesitation in time. An opening in a cave.
A gap for a word.
These were my stories - flashes across time.
I'll call you, and we'll light a fire, and drink some wine, and recognize each other in the place that is ours.
Don't wait. Don't tell the story later.
Life is so short. This stretch of sea and sand, this walk on the shore, before the tide covers everything we have done.
I love you
The three most difficult words in the world.
But what else can I say?
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