Legacy

 We watched our father slowly climb the worn spiral steps up to the lantern room. Our favorite room in the ¹Rubha Robhanais Lighthouse. Our father was the keeper. When we were children and when the weather was clear he let us play in the lantern room. We were never allowed to touch the beacon, no that was too precious. 

This would be our father's last weary climb up those steps he loved so dearly. He had grown old, our dear father. His beard that was once a vibrant red now full of whites and dark greys, his steps once sure and steady now stumbled on the steep way up. Tonight, his last night to guide the lost and wandering ships back home. Soon, it would be our turn. Our turn to carry on the legacy left behind by our father, grandmother, great-grandfather, and so on. The MacArthur lighthouse keeper legacy would be preserved. 

There at the top, our father began his routine. First, he would set down his lamp and then turn slowly, haltingly to the beacon. He treasured Rubha Robhanais's beacon. Under our father's care it had never broken, not once. Tonight would be our first time ever lighting the beacon but under our father's careful supervision. 

We stayed that night with our father working side by side, him passing down his mantle. Us trying to make his last night as the Lighthouse Keeper one he could always remember. There were no ships this night only clear skies and bright stars. Our father regaled us with his stories as a keeper. Dawn came too quickly for him.

We watched our father slowly climb the worn spiral steps back down. He stopped at the bottom, paused, turned to look up at what was once his sacred duty, and smiled sadly. Saying goodbye in his way, he patted the lighthouse's firm structure before he walked haltingly home.

 

 

 

1. Scottish Gaelic: Rubha Robhanais : Butt of Lewis