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  • She knew people with romantic notions of lighthouses–their spare-as-a-bone-ness and white isolation lured loners; their beacons, their reaching-out seduced romantics; their literary associations stirred poets.

    She never much liked them.
    Too disruptive.
    Too deliberate and dazzling.

    She grew up on a foggy stretch of the Maine coast, away from the human world–no telephone, no television, no neighbors– trees and birds and sea as companions, a place where no lighthouse flicked its rays, but where a deep-throated, invisible foghorn on the far point sang plaintive harmonies with the mesmerizing gray.

    Her brother was nearly swept out to sea in his rowboat one early morning but for the warning from across the waves, telling him he was not lost, not lost at all, but found.

    She would fall asleep lulled by those thick melodies, cushioned, in-between, weightless.
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