Voyaging across the Atlantic from America, hearts beating with anticipation, they were married in the first church they found upon coming ashore. Two new people – one new bond - in the land of love and tears.
He rented the old tower that sat on the edge of the cliffs, knowing how much he and his bride loved the history of the old place. Perfectly positioned, he embarked on his career. It was a romantic dream. He knew that. Throughout childhood, his mother told stories of his ancestors. They were a seafaring lot that started as whalers and fishers, and ended with a small fleet of ferries. The patriarch left Ireland for America, and he left his small fleet as well. Passing from one inheritance to another, the fleet had made its way back to him while he was still in college.
And college is where he met her. Amidst all of the school work, networking, drinking, fun, and chaos, she had appeared… and stayed. They were on different paths when they met but there was one moment when their paths became the same one direction. They were partners in everything. She was there when he set sail.
It was a gloriously beautiful day, the day he first set off. They had kissed in their newlywed way and she ran off, turning and waving, yelling out that she would watch him from the cliffs. And she did run the whole way up the narrow and precarious stair that cut a scar into the cliff just below their home. At the top, she watched in wonder as the final preparation was complete and the small ferry set out. Waving and jumping, tears steamed down her face. “Goodbye! Goodbye.” She shouted until her husband neared the horizon. It was then that she felt the cold of the fog as it lapped over the cliffs nearby.
Recalling her sweet wedding ceremony in the small cottage-sized church and their wedding dinner in the neighborhood tavern, she realized the skip in her step had brought her nearly home. She slowed her pace and was suddenly gripped by the icy fog. Her bones ached; her mind filled with loneliness.
She had promised him that she would go down to the Pointe everyday until he returned home, and everyday she made her way down to the precipice. Her grey eyes peered into the continuous fog searching for an opening, for a glimpse of the sea. The salty ice droplets stung her eyes and she sat as a blind woman fighting the will of nature. Hour upon hour, day upon day, she sat in isolated stillness, never seeing beyond the edge, returning home only when her soaked clothes and aching bones forced her slow drudge to the empty tower.
One day, she did not wake.
No day, he did return.
Who remembers loves embrace
from this inhospitable, beautiful place?
For Patrick, for his birthday, forever.
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