Every afternoon she walks down to the harbour, huddles in the corner of a wooden shelter and looks out to sea watching for the fishing boats to return laden with their glistening and twitching cargo. One by one they cruise towards the quay, and the throbbing of their engines is replaced by shrill shrieking from billowing clouds of ravenous gulls. She counts to herself, whilst praying that one more boat will return than had left that morning. The fishing folk no longer notice her, but she is always there. Always watching and waiting; always certain that today will be the day he'll return.
Every evening after the catch has been landed, the boats moored for the night and the seagulls have finished scavenging for leftovers, she walks to the harbours edge and touches the same rusting bollard she’s touched for thirty two long years. She looks down at the empty space between the bobbing boats, a space that once was his mooring, a space she keeps for him for when he returns. For he will return, she is certain. If not today, tomorrow. For tomorrow is another day, the day he’ll return, she’s sure.