lighthouse on the lake shore up north

Ship-shape and shapeless at the same time, Bernadette swaddled her baby in a towel and headed down the main drag towards the pharmacy.

"I'll take two of these," she declared to the boy behind the counter. She held up a glass pacifier. The boy looked at the baby and then back to Bernadette.

"You want the glass ones, ma'am?"

"Yes, I do," she replied, "two of them."

Bernadette caught the boy's glances. She signed and moved through the aisles and racks of greeting cards and old folks rummaging. She picked up her paper bag, paid and left folding the receipt for her dress front pocket.

She walked Greene street towards the pier as the sun set, giving the baby boy a slight bounce on the cobblestone. She thought of her sister up north and the upcoming baby shower. She'd have to plan quick, take the train on a Thursday to make the most of the weekend. Baby showers in the bigger cities. She wondered if people brought their young children; would a baby ruin the surprise, dampen the anticipation and excitement when they start behaving as babies do?

She'd never had a baby shower of her own. She kept things quiet and liked it that way through the lean years and as the family gathered a little wealth unto themselves. Had a partner in her good husband, holding similar interests and hobbies. For one, she liked holding the bills on her lap while painting. Specifically, she enjoyed acrylics on the paint-by-numbers. She'd follow the instructions, sometimes mixing her own shades for a #1 blue, and giving a fade to the skyline with a little dab of orange and a smidgeon of white.

As she made her way to the water, a few stars out, the little one under her arm cooing, she thought again about her sister, the dresses they wore, the patterns they used. How different will it be? With Bernadette's oldest child just starting pre-school, the age difference could play out how between the siblings? Will they fight more or less? Will they share secrets? She always held an image of her sister as her pretty little thing, through it all and all. When they smiled together, strangers took notice, strangers that otherwise passed them by as two more children about their games.

"There are mines, and the jewels inside," went the night song they'd sing. Bernadette and her sister shared the room in those early days, their voices low hum, a beacon through the darkness between their beds. She'd sing and imagine the two of them going down a mine like in the Saturday morning movie she'd seen, and toiling and chiseling, flashlight helmets in the dark, finding ores of brightest green and orange and yellow. They'd chip away huge chunks of it. Not like jewels worth millions, but like the cookie chunk found in a sundae at Frannie's Homemade.

Down at the pier, she could smell the rain, a muddy lake water, catch a glimpse from the lighthouse on the lake shore up north.