She imagines gripping the wheel—bone-tight,
white knuckles bracing against the storm,
her father’s hands still a shadow on hers,
calluses pressed into the curve of her palms.
The will of generations, lost to the tides,
coils through her fingers—her strength—
a force as boundless as the sea.

The lighthouse with its beam, cuts the dark—
a blade of light and shadow,
carving wounds into the cliffs.

The air clings—sharp with brine,
a slap, a bite, the sting of being alone.
She feels it—the terror of hulls splitting open,
the drowning sigh of rivets,
bending to the deep—
and still, she waits—
her heaving chest aching
of all she has lost and saved—
lives unknown to her.
The light turns slow—each revolution
a heartbeat trapped inside her stone walls.

When dawn unfurls,
it blends across the horizon,
purple and raw, spilling soft,
hues against restless waves.
She exhales, relieved,
the sun steals her guiding light.

She can rest again—
but the night will come again—
calling her name,
like a tide pulling her in,
to the light.

Her legacy.