I waited at the pier for months. Every day I wandered down there at noon, just like you said.
The first few weeks, I’d convinced myself that you had been delayed, or ran out of money, or had an emergency. I knew you wouldn’t call because you don’t believe in cell phones. You never had my number memorized anyway; numbers weren’t your thing.
The next few weeks I began to worry and scour the papers and snoop around town eavesdropping for some bit of news from the outside. Maybe a hurricane swallowed you up, a tidal wave washed you far upshore, a flood carried you downstream, a road washed out, anything that meant you were hindered and still trying to reach me.
I began coming to the pier before the first boat set sail and after the last one pulled in.
This morning’s fog chilled me through my shawl, wrapping moist fingers cold with longing around my ankles. I coughed. This could not go on. My heart would not take one more day desperate for you. I had no choice, save one.
This is my final goodbye.