My Love Returned

I was amongst the first to see the ship sail over the horizon. Atop the hill behind town, I put down my pen and stared, not quite daring to believe my hopes. From the sail, there was no mistaking that the ship was one of ours, but just because one of the queen’s vessels was approaching didn’t mean my beloved was. A more excitable man would have leapt up and ran to the pier to demand of the lookout whether this was The Golden Voyager, but I was always cautious and also well aware of how long it would take for men from the ship to reach shore. They had to sail into the harbor, which would involve waiting for the chains to lower. Then they would have to wait their turn to board one of the barges, because the ship was too large to dock at the pier itself. My beloved was not of high enough rank to get an early boat, so there were hours yet before he could possibly make it to me. Whether it was his ship or not wouldn’t matter until near dark.

There was no finishing my poem. The elk I was trying to capture with words didn’t care about the ship, but I was too distracted to work. I flipped the page of my notebook and scrawled something new.

Anticipation:

Part hope, part fear.

My longing is physical,

As is my uncertainty.

He’s been gone so long.

Is he still him?

Am I still me?

Is there still an us together?

The words weren’t particularly good, an incredibly rough draft indeed, but they were accurate. “Yishharu,” I breathed, making a prayer of my beloved’s name. I begged the Fates to let this ship be his if he still wanted me, but not his if he did not. For if he’d decided our relationship was a fleeting relic of childhood, that it was time for him to find a woman and father children, then I didn’t want to know yet. Better to continue to live with the fantasy of his love for me than to face a cold reception and lack of desire.

And thus did I sit for hours, watching the approach. Was that Yishharu I saw on deck, rushing from place to place? Or could that be him standing by the helmsman? Or maybe it was he in the crowsnest, looking at the shore and wondering if the figure on the hill was his darling Kikeru?

The tide rolled in, bringing the ship closer. She made anchor as the first of the barges headed out to meet her. The pier grew crowded with lovers, with parents, with children, all waiting for their sailors. The ship had to be The Golden Voyager. So many wouldn’t be waiting if it were a different ship. Yet I held back, too timid to join them rather than holding back, embracing only my nausea. I told myself there was no point in rushing anyway, that Yishharu was so junior he would be one of the last off, if he was even allowed to leave at all. For all I knew, he had drawn the watch for that night and wouldn’t be ashore until at least the next afternoon. And thus did I try to deny the obvious truth that I didn’t rush forward because I was too frightened.

Hope is a strange thing though. Strong as fear is, hope can be stronger. Fear comes into the fighting ring with more power, but most of its intimidation lays in pure bluster. Hope burns slower, seems meeker. But hope has a stamina fear lacks and is left standing when fear faints from fatigue.

Fear fought to keep me on the hill, but hope took me gently by the hand and led me down to the water.

I found Yishharu quickly, drawn to him as though I were a fish he had hooked. He met my eyes across the fading crowd and my heart raced as I tried to decipher what I saw in his gaze. Not breaking his focus from me, he said something to the sailor he’d been talking to. That man smiled at me, then smiled even wider at the woman clinging to his arm. I knew her; she worked at the bakery and spoke often of her husband. She’d found out she was pregnant with their first child just after the ship left and had feared she would give birth before he returned. He’d made it just in time.

My body trembled as I kept moving forward. Worrying about other people’s lives could only distract me so far. Yishharu moved too, advancing no faster than I was.

We stopped several feet apart.

“Kikeru,” he said softly, his voice catching partway through. “I didn’t think you were coming. I… I thought maybe you’d…”

In a heartbeat, I flew forward, letting my lips against his stop the words. “I’m sorry,” I whispered between kisses. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to come.”

He pressed against me, his body hardened from months at sea but still fitting against mine perfectly. Somewhere someone muttered about the appropriateness of our display of affection, but I felt no embarrassment or concern. My Yishharu was back, and he was still mine. Miracle of miracles, he was still mine! And I was still his.

My beloved pulled back, taking my face in his hands and staring into my soul with the piercing blue eyes I had missed so much. “I will never stop wanting you.”

Heart dissolving into happiness, I smiled for him. “And I will never stop wanting you.”



Yishharu sailed with The Golden Voyager several more times, until we had saved enough money to buy some land and a few goats. We live in the hills now, with a large window overlooking the bay. Sometimes as we sit hand-in-hand at our window and watch a ship come in, I think about his first homecoming, about how strong my fear was. It seems like a ludicrous worry now, when after decades he still looks at me as though I hung the sun. He is my heart, and I am his. I should have known it would take more than mere absence to come between us.

Above image is taken from a fresco on a wall in the ruins of Akrotiri on the island of Thera (aka Santorini).

It was provided as a prompt on my Wording Wednesday group on MeWe.

This tale of a sailor's homecoming hit me a little close to home. I dedicate it to everyone who has ever waited for their beloved to return from sea.