Boston Harbor

Amelia gazed out of her window. The moon’s first crest rose out of Boston harbor. The lights of the city twinkled below, candles and lanterns glowed a pale orange. The stars twinkled above, clear and bright. Nights like these were made for lovers. Made for watching the stars pass by; made for watching the sun rise. They were not made for writing long into the night.

Amelia looked down at her letter. ‘Dearest friend’ the page was titled. Dousing her pen in ink, she started to write. The lamp on her desk flickered, the sky over head darkened, the pen dipped into the ink once more. An owl hooted. The pen stopped. Amelia looked out on the harbor.

A shadow floated across the bay. A British man o’ war. They were the talk of the town these days. The British this, the British that. It hurt each time she heard that name. Britain. That was where heart was. That was where her love was. The ship floated into the bay, its mast and spars crossed the moon like a prison bar. Amelia laid her pen down and sunk her head into her hands. Like a prison bar.

The wind whistled by, she raised her pen once more and smote a few more lines on the page: “I do not know what to say. I want to say too much, but find myself saying too little,” she wrote. “Boston is the same it always has been, yet it feels empty with you gone. “ She paused. The clamor of men drifted up from the streets below. The measured tread of grenadiers.

It was a cold wind. A cold April. A lonely April. She moved her pen again. Outside the ships drifted on with a solemn silence. The pen, now dry, scratched against the page before she looked up. Her heart full; her page still empty. “Empty night” she cursed, dipping her pen into the vial once more.

Far across the bay, by the Old North Church, a belfry there lay. A light was shinning. Amelia watched. Another shone. She thought, waited.
“Across the bay two lights are shinning,” Amelia wrote, “I miss you, yet in my heart we are like those two lights. When one shines, the other follows. When one grows dim, the other quivers. It is a hallow torment to be apart so long. But I our souls our linked: our lives are linked. Like two lights on hung in a belfry tower, our souls shine together.” Her pen paused, her heart full, her face smiled.

Footsteps thundered outside. A man shouted: “The British are coming! The British are coming!” Amelia paid him no head. Her pen scratched one last time, “Always yours, Amelia.” She was done. Her letter was done. With solemn voice she whispered across the bay, to the two lights hanging in the belfry: “I love you.”

Some of the inspiration, and some of the phrases from this story come from Longfellow's poem, Paul Revere's Ride.