Standing at the top of this majestic lighthouse. Opening the door to the staircase, I notice that it is shallow, deep, and metal. I am bare-footed, so as I step down that first step, I feel the coldness of the metal, the roughness that is almost sharp and it surprises me. I stand there, on the top stair, getting used to the texture and temperature, preparing myself for continuing down into the warm depth of the lighthouse. Slowly, I continue my descent. Listening to the gulls outside, the crashing of the waves, and the blow of boat horns. These stairs seem to go on forever. I look to my hand on the railing. I notice how worn the wood looks. Smooths by the thousands of lighthouse keepers who have walked, run, and traversed as I do now; hands rubbing the wood and oiling it as a seal. I look to the walls and see photos of eras gone by. Then there is a window and I see the darkness of the night at sea for a moment. I look down and see that my journey down the lighthouse is almost to an end. The warmth of the fireplace fuels these last few steps as my body yearns to feel it's fiery fingers of warm caresses on my wary body. Finally I made it down the stairs, my feet almost missing the coolness of those sharp stairs. I take a deep breath and walk to the fireplace.
