text: The stars were always so beautiful to me, and as I look up at them now, I’m still pulled by them. My dad could look at them and point out the different shapes and names of the constellations. I’ve never been into the shapes of stars or the names of planets though, I’ve always been attracted to the points connecting them. I’ve always been drawn to the darkness and the vastness within the space between the stars. As I lay down about to drift off into unconscious sleep, I looked up at the unknown number of stars that night time in Alaska offered through the hotel window. It made me think about the wall of darkness that the city night sky suspended. I fell into deep sleep staring up at the sky, my heart beat syncing up with the rhythm of motor boats as they returned home. It was a cold morning in the city of Dutch Harbor when I first arrived at the lighthouse where I’d be spending the summer working at alone. The small, lone tower was located on a man-made island about a half mile off the coast of the city. It seemed like an easy enough job to me, all I needed to do was sit there and give daily reports saying that all was well. Every other part of the lighthouse job had been computerized years ago. Alfred was showing me around the living quarters when I set my duffel bag full of clothes and books down on the old, weathered sofa. The whole room was situated directly beneath the main staircase to the top of the small lighthouse. The place smelled of old oak, and the white-painted brick walls felt cool beneath my outreached hand. The room was decorated solely by brass nautical equipment. She’s old , Alfred said. But she’s true. And soon she’ll feel like home. He was in his late sixties and, from what he’s told me, he’s spent the past thirty of those years manning the lighthouse with his family. He was getting older however, and he decided to hire people to work two out of the four seasons while he lived on the mainland with his wife. He was a nice guy, and with a wave of a hand he had me follow him towards a dark oak door. Now I know you’re going to school to be a writer at the moment. So my wife and I decided to do a little something to make the stay a bit more comfortable. He opened the door to a small home office, a dark hardwood desk and bookshelf holding various paperbacks and manuals being the staples. I approached the desk and saw an old manual Royal typewriter sitting on top of it. I felt the keys beneath my fingertips and smiled. The desk chair faced a circular window that looked out over the water. Thank you so much Alfred, I said. This is literally the nicest office I’ve ever been in. Don’t thank me yet. Working out here can be lonely, and my wife thought we should add something to help the transition a bit. Don’t worry. I don’t feel lonely too often, I said. Well you’re also not going to like that there’s no wifi out here, that’s why I brought out the typewriter. I usually prefer not to use the internet anyways, I said. Well! Aren’t you the old soul, Alfred laughed. It was all true, every adult called me an old soul and I never really cared much about being on my own. It was hard for me to relate with a lot of people at school, they only seemed interested in things that scratched the surface. I’ve always been the one left to think on deeper questions and issues. That’s always been the difference between me and people my own age. While everyone seems so sure on where they’re going in life, I’ve always wondered if there was anywhere else to go. That was one of the reasons I decided to take this job for the summer, the other being that my dad couldn’t afford to pay for my school and I didn’t have enough financial aid to cover all the costs. Well, that seems to be all, Alfred said, breaking me from my thoughts. I’ll be by every other week with food and other supplies. Just make sure to make a list of anything you may want that I can get ya. He turned and walked out the front door. I waved to him as he got in his small boat and started heading out. Thank you Alfred! I’ll see you soon! I yelled to him. Closing the door I realized that for the first time in my life, I was truly alone and with my own thoughts. Free to read and write from sun-up till sun-down. It felt simultaneously liberating and terrifying, I was just hoping I wouldn’t burn myself out. I decided to sit down to write for a bit and see how I felt in my new environment. The paper for the typewriter was sitting to the left of it. I loaded a page and felt my fingertips slide perfectly into position. I couldn’t write though, I just could find the inspiration. The next day, after my daily call in, I sipped my morning coffee at the top of the tower. My wool sweater was doing poorly against the breeze being blown from the Arctic. I hadn’t seen any boats for about an hour but, as I looked out over the empty water, I saw a white sailboat gliding across the sea. It was a classic, wood sailboat with the name Diane written across its side with its large sails catching the breeze on its solitary voyage across the ocean. A single white dot in the vastness of the blue sea. It was magnificent, and as I watched it I saw more boats follow. Soon they were spread out, covering the water, like stars in the sky. Seeing Diane made me think of the boat my dad had bought down in San Diego when I was thirteen. We’re going to get her all fixed up, my dad had said. In front of us was the most beat up sailboat I had ever laid eyes on. He had bought it for less than five hundred dollars. For five years the boat sat untouched in the San Diego Bay. Every year my dad promised that together we’d fix it up and sail up to Santa Barbara, or down to Mexico. And every year the promises fell short and the boat sat alone un-repaired and un-sailable. The damages of the past just too cemented in to fix. Every morning became the same. I’d have my daily call in and then enjoy my coffee at the top of the lighthouse waiting for Diane. And every morning I’d see her, the solitary white star in the outer space of open ocean, leading a herd of vessels out to sea. Soon I started to think of who Diane was and how she related to the sailor. Then I started to write down the story of Diane on that old typewriter in the office. I wrote about her endless adventures and potential, her relationships and unlimited knowledge. I came to see myself in Diane, all the places either of us could go became clear. We were both living in the midst of the immortality that comes with youth. This morning Alfred came to drop off supplies right after my daily call in. I helped him unload the boxes up from the boat and gave him the list with some things I wanted him to pick up in town, one being a warmer jacket for when the morning winds came. After everything was unloaded Alfred got back into his boat and was getting ready to head back to the mainland. Just then I saw Diane head out with the boats all following her. Who is she? I asked. Who’s who? Alfred asked, looking at me. Diane, I said. Alfred’s expression became solemn, and he let out a long sigh before he answered. Diane was a local girl. She was smart and real sweet too, he said. Was a local? What do you mean Alfred? I asked. When she was eighteen she went to Anchorage for University. One night, about twenty years ago, she was just driving home from the library and a drunk driver T-boned her. She passed almost instantly. Anyways, that’s her father. And every morning he sails that boat, that he and his daughter fixed up together by the way, out on the water. He’s always the first one out, and the only day that changed was when his wife passed too about five years ago. I could feel my eyes sting, but I refused to cry in front of this man. This man who I did not know, who did not understand my connection to Diane. He said goodbye and all I did was wave. I couldn’t speak a word in fear that I might break, might let slip why I was so damaged by the loss of someone I didn’t even know. I just walked into the lighthouse and, closing the door behind me, I collapsed onto the floor and sobbed for Diane. The sun set and I had not moved. I thought of how empty the promise of who Diane was. And I thought of all the empty promises my father had told me over the years. You and I are going to fix this boat up together. Don’t worry, I’ll get another job and we’ll all be back on our feet. You won’t have to work this summer, I’ll be able to cover the cost of school. Then there was the empty promise my dad told me five years ago, right before he bought that boat. And right after my just mom walked out of our lives. Don’t worry son, I’m sure your mother will come back. She just needs some time alone. I got up then and shuffled over to the typewriter. I didn’t know what I could write about anymore. My inspiration was dead, all the possibilities of who she could be gone. Was there any future for me, or was I destined to have all my potential possibilities end? Was there even a future? Maybe there’s only the present and the damaging past? When my mother left I just retracted into myself. My pain, isolation, and trauma boiled down to just two lonely words by everyone around me: old soul. That’s all I was anymore. So I loaded up another page in the typewriter, just needing some way to release my thoughts. As I got ready to write though I looked through the circular window and saw the stars. There I saw Diane. I saw my mother. I saw my father finally keeping a promise. Lastly, I saw myself living a life that I craved. A life absent of isolation and pain. I saw where new light could shine, and new planets could form. I saw the endless possibility, the unlimited potential. All there, in the space between the stars. And it was all so beautiful.