There used to be this light. It was a red, flashing light outside Henry’s bedroom window that I could see across the river at night. It was cold then, and windy in early March. The bare trees would sway wildly in the wind, and with each gust, the windows would shiver.
I would sit with Henry at night and rock him. We were wrapped together in a blanket, his warm little frame nestled against me. And the light was there. Through the trees, across the river and perched there, on the top of a tower, in the middle of a field it flashed, slowly and rhythymically. I often wondered about it’s purpose.
I looked for the light last night, but I couldn’t find it. Maybe the trees are too dense right now. Maybe when autumn strips them of their leaves I will see it again, I don’t know. Maybe it is gone.
It was always there before.