A tsunami of memories overwhelms her.
Long summer twilights, chilled wine hauled from the murky depths beside the boat, steel halyards tinkling against the mast, and strakes rubbing irritably against foreign quays.
His boat, spotted from the harbour wall, is well past its best; they both are now.
There’s movement below decks. She should climb on board, say hello… just passing through. They always said they’d find each other again… soul mates, kindred spirits.
Their journey, they’d said, would bind them together irrevocably. Nothing would change.
But the past is a foreign country.
And they do things differently there.
She walks by.
This photo had me reminiscing about more carefree times. Freedom of movement is something you tend not to notice… until it’s gone. Friday Fictioneers is about as far from home as most of us are getting these days, thanks to Rochelle. Stay home, stay safe and well.