A Painting

The ships came in this morning.
I stand at the rusting rail of my balcony, leaning just far enough over to see the mournful souls gather unwillingly, as if pulled by some strange and dark force, to the ships waiting patiently in shifting water. I can see them bowing their heads, the many that come in pairs, not out of reverance or humility, but out of sorrow and fear, allowing an ascent for their warm tears to fall and meet the solid ground beneath, mingling, confused with the ocean spray. The salty mist coming in blows from the harbor, breathed in like air, the only air they've ever known.
And I see her standing there.
She is not alone, but in only a few moments, either feeling as though an eternity or a blink in time, she will be. He stands beside her there on the docks, adjusting his hat atop his head, squinting his eyes above to see the bow of the ship. And she hugs herself to shut out the cold. Then I see tears. Many tears, again flowing freely from her fear stained eyes. She longs to wake from this dream that is reality. For her love will leave her today for these ships.
Today, he becomes a sailor, and the sea calls.
He knows it is time to say farewell. To, for the final time, dry the trickling tears from her eyes, and whisper against her ear, "I will come home." But she knows for certain he will not. For the sea is an angry creation, relentlessly taking lives as it pleases. And never giving back. She knows she is standing at the harbor for the last time, saying goodbye, waving him off. I can see her waving, until her arm aches. Crying until there are no tears left. Wishing. Dying.
The ships pull from the wooden docks.
And I too wave from my balcony, but with not the emotion of whom I look upon from here. She stands alone now. All alone. Alone in body and in heart. Her untamed hair blowing wildly in the wind, as it plays with it, trying so very hard to lighten her spirit, but inwardly she is being torn apart. And I know she is praying.
May not even the sea take his life.