They take photographs, ask questions, film Lessard in their home movies and sometimes request that she stop mowing the lawn. It disturbs their tranquil visit. On a chilly March afternoon, Lessard parks her muddy Honda Civic on the crest of the hill overlooking the lighthouse. I never get tired of looking at the sky and the water. The wind is mercifully calm this evening.
Waves slap the rocks below the light.
A buoy sways in the sea and clangs like a church bell. The light at the top of the lighthouse turret casts an orange glow as it reflects the setting sun. Inside, the lighthouse is much like any home. There is new wallpaper that Lessard and her mother hung in most of the small rooms. She put out rugs, curtains and photographs of her sons, Mark and Patrick.