Isolation
Mack Tracy
T
he alarm clock rings out, adding exhilaration to the man’s lovely hibernation, though slight agitation rushes his senses. His aching body stretches over the sound of mattress creaks to hit an imprint on the button. Shadows cast heavily upon the lighthouse which sits lean and proud on the island. Boats bob the water as they gradually seesaw, waving in appreciation. They seem to recognize the lighthouse, but not the man within. 52 years could be cut into 10 for the man of the lighthouse, for it is all the same. It’s a generous offer to the public, though he still questions as to why he does it. The once young and animated man gladly accepted the job, excited to be working such a structure. Now, old and meager, he trots about his house which has confined him. Quarter till seven; dark circular cottage brick walls, walnut wood furniture, open ceilings, a small white carpet on dark wood floors; he’s lost the beauty in it all. He gazes out at his vast property of water. The oversized rocks, seagulls, the seasalt smell; it has all remained the same in his eyes. The man stretches his frail arms and legs. Routinely, he begins by tracing the lines of the dry, leather journal which resembles his worn hands. He jots in his journal. Entry 1: “These circular walls never start and stop of course. Till this day,
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