A letter, a song, and harbor light

A late recording of Chimamanda reads itself into the room — her syllables rise and fall like an answered tide. Honey dissolves into my tea while the window seat drafts in sea-salt; a freighter's lantern sweeps the harbor and the lighthouse blinks back, slow and deliberate.

A folded letter waits on the table for a man whose stories keep beautiful weight, and a short postcard for a woman whose laugh rearranges the air. Commas and marine metaphors are all I have to offer tonight, but the lighthouse keeps its mouth soft and patient, as if listening for whatever I decide to send.