Home Is Behind, The Road Ahead

The lighthouse
A broken archway, the stones are worn with age, moss clings to there jagged edges. The only sign of life is the sway of the auburn grass. Something stirs within me as I pass through the ageless stones. As though all of those that came before me, caught in time for just a moment are passing through me. Rusted metal hangs like withering branches from the concrete archway. The abandoned light house is before me. Newly whitewashed by unseen hands. A lonely monument to a once proud society destined to be another casualty of time. It seems so at peace with itself, like a retired general sitting on his porch swing. Again I feel the thousands before me that walked these trails. All dressed in the heavy backpacks of the trail like phantasms smiling as they reach there place of rest. The window’s of the lighthouse beckon me to see through there eyes, to see those ships cast upon the rocks. Something catches my eye on the sill, recent graffiti. Undecipherable writing, proof of humanities need to leave there mark . I know the trail carries me past this place of rest. I look at the trees being pulled by the wind and see myself being pulled back the way I came. Straps from my backpack whipping my face. The sand is so soft I sink into it. Each step heavier than the last. More miles lay behind me than in front. Sadness grips my senses, soon I will see the rush of cars. Lights will tear a hole into the darkness and take away the sky I have grown so accustomed too, but not quite yet. My seven companions soon catch up to me. Comprised of six overly weary, yet accomplished teenagers and soon to be life long friend, Dashielle. He calls out to me through the wind, “We campin here tonight?!” A brief silence of contemplation as I take in the lighthouse in it’s entirety. The week of arduous hiking heavy on my senses. I yell, “Definitely!”
“Lost Coast Trail” California, Punta Gorda Lighthouse.