Widow's walk

It's been seven years now that he has gone out on his little fishing boat in that stormy night, and still she is gazing out to sea watching for her spouse's return every afternoon. Before she steps out onto the rooftop platform overlooking the lush marshes, she puts on the blue working dress she had worn when they had first met. She keeps telling people her hair has turned white over the years, but in fact it has changed color over night, in that terrible night, the longest, loneliest night of her young life, when she woke up in the dark hours and knew she had lost him. And still she steps out on her walk, searches the horizon for a sign, a sail, a cloud, something, anything, and what ever it is that appears in the distance, she tries to hold it with her gaze and drag it into the bay, afraid to even blink, as if her stare was a rope she is tossing to a boat returning to the harbor. She doesn't cry. Not anymore. But when the wind blows from the east it is heavy with salt spray that gently settles on her cheek. Let the sea do the crying. She smiles. Let the sea do the crying.