Post 1640. Sunday November 26
Each afternoon she walks down to the harbour, huddles in the corner of a wooden shelter and looks out at the ocean as the fishing boats come home laden with their glistening twitching cargo. One by one they glide towards the quay, the throbbing of their engines drowned by shrill shrieking from billowing clouds of ravenous gulls. She counts them in, whilst praying that one more boat will return than left that morning.
The fishing folk no longer notice her, but she is always there. Always watching, always waiting; praying that today will be the day he'll return.
Each 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 harbour's edge and lays her hand on the same rusting bollard she’s touched for thirty-two long years.
She looks down at the empty space in the row of bobbing boats, a space that once was his mooring; a space she keeps for him when he returns. He will return, of that she is certain. If not tomorrow, the day after. He will return, of that she’s sure.