Lighthouse | JACK SAWYER ’21

Lighthouse

BY JACK SAWYER ’21

As I approached, the gravel crunched underneath my feet from an absence of grass where thousands of shoes molested the thriving vegetation that once led up the hill.

The rock had been cracked; The water slapped it across the face relentlessly until the rock lost itself and began to crumble, letting go of its own identity, shedding the jagged skeleton of a piece of land that succumbed to the relentless force of the tides.

Atop this land remained a lighthouse. It too suffered from the seasons, standing up to the rains that rust its metal rails, withstanding the cold of winters touch against the red and white paint. The lighthouse was made to stand.