Time to say good-bye!

People start gathering on the docks at the crack of dawn - early risers and night owls alike, for this is not the time to sleep late. Most have not closed an eye at all - especially the elderly folks, sick with worry and racking their brains trying to remember what they may have forgotten. Something essential - maybe a warm muffler, a toothbrush or a box of aspirins. The weather might get cold any day now!

They sit in scattered groups mindful of the others’ privacy, although they are in this together and they’re already reeling from the incoming pain of seeing the ship sail away.
A casual observer would have ample material for a study in human psychology.
The dignified, self-conscious ones keeping a straight face and level voice. It is a moment they knew it was coming, no need to get overly emotional. It is as it should be, they tell themselves. And they believe it for now. Things might change in the dark of night, but, then at least there won’t be anyone around to hear their silent tears.
The garrulous ones - talking over each other, laughing at their secret jokes as if it’s nothing more than a regular family outing, like so many in the past. ‘Remember that time at that restaurant with the anchovy pizza’ and they immediately burst into laughter. The older folks will keep saying the same joke for many years to come, yet their laughter will not be so merry. Nothing will.
Then the silly ones - or maybe the smartest of them all - those who won’t make an effort to hold back tears. Young and old alike, crushed by the misery of the supposedly joyous moment. Teary mothers kissing their firstborns wet cheeks, leaving little smudges of lipstick they furiously wipe away with crumpled handkerchiefs. Fathers suffocated by the pain that grips at their necks who won’t let go of their sons’ hands. They keep shaking and shaking those hands ten times as big as the pudgy infant hands that used to clutch at their big fatherly noses as if they were the best toys in the world, the fearful hands they held on tight while crossing the road, the eager hands unwrapping Christmas gifts. Those little hands their hearts remember so well are big and strong now, yet not so steady at the moment - see, they don’t even try to pull away, because when they board that ship there won’t be anyone left to hold their hands. No one to cross them safely across the street, they’ll be in charge of finding their way or breaking a new path.

The moment draws near and no amount of laughing or crying is going to stop the unstoppable. Just time enough for a few pictures - never mind the hair out of place or the pained smiles on frozen faces. ‘I’ll send it to you as soon as I’m settled in my cabin’, the confident son tells them. Maybe he will, but then maybe he won’t. They know he’ll be busy over there. So many things to discover, people to meet, girls to smile at. He’s a good boy, he’ll call every day with news of his life on distant shores - all the exciting things he’s been doing and he’ll spare his old Mom of his moments of doubt and fear. The times he’d give anything for a comforting hand, but there is no rushing back. Maybe in space, but never in time.

The ship blows its horn the third time - the dice are cast. If you’ve come so far, it means you’ve done well, your mission is accomplished, you’ve won in the lottery of life. Why does it feel like a loss, then?
Frantic good-byes and heartbroken see-you-soons pierce the air, melting in a general farewell where it is impossible to distinguish the trembling voice of your loved one. But still they shout out to no one in particular, they’re all free to pick any farewell that catches their ear. They’re in it together, remember?
The children awkwardly gathered on deck, wondering how long are they supposed to stand there, watching the shore receding, until faces are indistinguishable and all that is left is a mass of agitated colorful dots waving stick hands. One by one they retreat to their cabins, confident the dots on the shore won’t notice their absence. They don’t, for the ship itself is nothing but a dot on the horizon. Yet, they’re still there waving at the ship that never really comes back.

Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge. Today's prompt was: charge! Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.

Thanks for reading!

Image: Pixabay.