If I lived in a lighthouse, I would bake fresh bread every Saturday and my cookie jar would always be full.

I would wear wellies, worn out jeans, and sweaters.  I would have a big down coat with a fur trimmed hood.  When I came in from outside, I would leave my boots at the little door of my lighthouse, hang my coat on a polished brass hook and walk around in my socks.

My lighthouse would have lots of wood and stony walls.  It would be drafty but for one warm corner at the top, by the lens.

In that corner would sit my old orange comfy chair that smelled of musty cigars someone else had smoked.  To the side of my chair would be a rickety typing table, metal.  A box, no a lobster trap box, would sit at the foot of the chair and that is where I would prop my colorful socked feet every night.

On the nights when the chill tried to invade my cozy corner, I would cover myself with the one and only afghan I made during a particularly long winter.  The afghan and my books would be my prized possessions.

If I lived in a lighthouse, I would eat soup and stew from a big bowl with torn pieces of my homemade bread.  I would eat cherries and ice cream.  I would write letters and none of my dishes would match.

My bed would be close to the orange chair, covered in an oversized feather duvet and lots of down filled pillows.  I would open the little round window by my bed, keep watch out over the ocean and gaze up at the stars until my eyes fell from exhaustion.

I would never miss a sunrise, if I lived in a lighthouse.

My lighthouse would sit on a crashing, craggy coast with bunches of those succulent plants that bloom tiny purple flowers. I would take walks every day through the foggy mist to the tea shop in town.

On Wednesdays, I would ride my bike to the small store for groceries.  I would have stacked firewood and one of those old black stoves with two burners.  I would listen to music and on Sundays I would oil the bannister of the staircase and clean the windows.

If I lived in a lighthouse, I would fall in love with a sailor and when he was gone, which would be often, I would listen and read and write about lives much different than my own.

My thoughts from the laundry room.  Dreamy.

dreams If writing

12 Comments Leave a comment

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: