Wailing

Once, when I still blithely romped in dungarees and sang to the summer world, I visited my cousin on the coast. He lived beneath a lighthouse, telling me at the witching hour of its withering caretaker and his lost, lovelorn bride. Each night, her specter flung itself from atop the tower. Each dawn, she wept bitterly into the wind. Between, she trawled, ached, for children. When the foghorn bellowed, I shrieked every time, spooked, left sleepless. He thought I’d never stomach a ghost story again. He never knew I’d become the one stalking the darkness, wailing for children I’ll never have.