The Sentinel

This night at Old Silver Beach, the sky unraveled like a slow-breathing dream. It began in pale washes of whitish-yellow, the horizon glowing faint as if the day was whispering its last secrets. The water mirrored that tenderness, a shimmer of quiet silver stretched endlessly toward the fading light. Then, almost without warning, the colors broke open—coral and fire spilled across the clouds, the whole sky burning with a brilliance too wild to hold. It was as though the sun, unwilling to leave softly, chose instead to bow out in a blaze of astonishment, painting the shoreline in hues of wonder.

In the midst of it all, the lifeguard chair stood like a lone sentinel, silhouetted against the firelit sea. Empty now, it seemed more than wood and bolts—it was a watchtower of memory, a place where vigilance once lived but now only silence remained. There is a metaphor in its posture: how we, too, sometimes climb above the noise of life, searching for clarity, balance, or the safety of those we love. And yet, when the seat is vacant, the chair still speaks—of presence beyond presence, of holding space even when no one is there. Last night, it seemed to keep watch over the changing sky, reminding me that even in solitude, there is guardianship, and even in endings, there is beauty.