The Old Lighthouse
A flash of memory. She’s drifting in her mind, eyes closed, the air gently caressing, the sun merely a soft warmth. In the old days, golden childhood days, one could drive right up to the old lighthouse, and taking the winding steps as carefully as full speed would allow, burst out onto the tiny tower rim, only the metal pipe rail between safety and flying. Today the poor tourists, corralled and directed, crowded in jostling groups, surrounded by blacktop, and funneled through the gift shop, banned from the tower by a rope across the stairs, well, they cannot even imagine what it was to almost fly.
For Magpie Tales (The Mag) prompt 169. Do follow the link for some wonderful reading!
