I.

In the evening. A cracking leather chair, a coffee wafting over the smell of amber and sandalwood; beside it a stack of stories by Genet, Camus, Proust, or Voltaire with worn-out spines and loving tears across the covers. Even during hotter months, a sea salt breeze passes through old shiplap walls and wavy glass windows covered in nothing but sun-stained lace doilies and cheesecloth. A sailor’s coat hooked in the corner and a Mexican silver rosary sleeps on an unfinished walnut tabletop.

II.

Ancient remains of cigarettes spread themselves on a scallop shell on the kitchen counter underneath a collection of rusting copper on the pot rack. To the left, his usual dinner of brown toast, a small dish of olive oil, and anchovies packed in salt. Untouched. A band of moonlight tattoos a cabinet filled with decaying bone china. On the inside panel, a fading cabinet card of a young woman with thick brown braids is taped next to an illustrated postcard of a lighthouse wrapped in raging sea water. The title along the bottom reads, MINOTS LEDGE LIGHT IN A HEAVY SEA.

III.

A heavy stained covered cloth sags over the dining room table. A wind picks up and the sea moves with it, carrying clouds of dust through the air and onto stacks of wooden picture frames face-down on the wide planked floor.

IV.

On the outside, the front door is nailed shut and a yellow flag with a black circled center is wedged in the frame. I am altering my course to port. On the inside, a vaulted ceiling covers the century-old smells and a wooden card table balancing a glass dish filled with brass keys and an empty zippo lighter. The wood is weathering along the handrail leading upstairs from his caress. An oak sconce flickers alone, finished in a rich dark brown and dripping with wax; beside it a shadow box with two long gray braids overlapping like a trinity knot.

V.

When she passed away in this room, he put a wreath on the door. Tonight, a wreath of her cut up old clothes are tied in a circle, haunting the cast iron doorknob leading to the bedroom.

VI.

Black and white Talavera tile floor, a rusted faucet dripping, a black edged mirror where the silver has fallen away hangs by a leather strap above a porcelain sink; above it a tin obituary card ornament. The face on the card is indiscernible from years of his touch. A clawfoot bathtub filled with dirty towels and a fist sized hole below the windowsill making the room more suitable for spring and fall. In the corner, a tall, narrow, leaf side table covered in all thirteen spade playing cards and white pillar candles of different sizes. All left burning.

VII.

The cold light over the sea cascades across the ripped lace canopy gifted by his brother on his wedding day. The rest of the bedroom is black and absent of detail. A bundle of branches lay at his blue feet and his shirt is stiff with salt. Kaleidoscopic stains of red droplets on off-white sheets gleam when the moon hits them through the wavy glass window. See the bedside table, only a few wooden matchsticks. He left no note because he already knew what he’d tell her. He had been practicing it for years. With a content expression, he held a dress of hers when he went.

VIII.

In the evening. The phantom silhouette of a woman gently opens the window - Her thick braids dancing in the salt air. She drapes an old sailor’s coat over his remains to keep him warm as he sleeps to the sound of waves.