Grey and damp, damp and grey, she spends hours propped up against the sink, staring out of the window. The turbulent swell beyond her garden is an ocean grown from her tears.
Her beloved spouse built this house with his bare hands: barnacled seafarer’s hands accustomed to scrubbing decks and pulling ropes. In the kitchen, the windows stretch from one wall to another, so she can watch the horizon for his ship’s return and race along the beach to the harbour to greet him.
She has waited so many years, she’s a wreck and her legs have turned to flotsam.