The Summer I Did Not Follow You Into Light

The summer I did not follow you into light I stood at the edge of the harbor with my shoes in my hands and watched your figure dissolve into brightness until I could no longer tell where you ended and the morning began.

The day was already warm though the sun had barely cleared the roofs. Salt clung to the air and the cries of gulls cut sharp and lonely above the water. The boats rocked gently against their ropes and the harbor smelled of pitch and old nets and the promise of distance. You were on the deck of the packet ship fastening your bag with careful fingers. When you looked up you smiled as if the moment were ordinary and not a dividing line that would mark the rest of my life. I lifted my hand once then let it fall back to my side. The light made it difficult to see your face and easier to pretend that this was not happening.

We had met during a season that felt suspended from consequence. Summer had opened the town and loosened it. Doors stood wide. People lingered in the streets after dusk. I worked at the small museum cataloging objects brought in from the countryside fragments of pottery faded maps rusted tools whose purposes had been forgotten. You arrived to consult the records for a trading company that wanted proof of old routes and claims. You asked careful questions. You listened closely. I noticed how you always stood where the light was best.

In the afternoons when the building grew too warm we walked to the quay and sat on crates turned smooth by years of use. The water flashed and darkened with passing clouds. You spoke of places beyond the headland where cities pressed close together and voices never quite lowered. I spoke of the quiet joy of knowing where things belonged. You teased me gently for my certainty. I told you that certainty was only another form of courage.

There were moments when we almost forgot ourselves. Once a sudden breeze lifted my hair and you reached out to steady it and did not draw your hand away at once. The touch was brief and electric. We both laughed too quickly. We spoke then of the weather as if it were a safer subject. That was our way. We learned how to circle what we wanted without naming it.

As the weeks passed the harbor filled with ships. Departure dates were posted. Your name appeared beside one of them. You showed me the notice folded small and worn at the edges. You said it was an opportunity that would not come again. I told you that you should go. The words felt practiced and hollow. That night I lay awake listening to the distant bells and imagined the light of other harbors.

The morning you left the town gathered early to watch the ship depart. I stood apart. The stones were cool beneath my feet. The sun rose quickly and scattered gold across the water. When you stepped onto the deck you did not look back at first. When you did our eyes met across the distance and held. I thought then that if I moved if I called out if I did anything at all the world might rearrange itself. I did nothing. The ship pulled away slowly and the light swallowed you.

Life resumed its shape because it had no other choice. Summer ended. Autumn closed the doors again. I continued my work among objects that outlasted their owners. I married later a man who valued stillness and offered me a life that fit well enough. We shared years of honest affection. When he died I mourned him fully and without confusion.

Time moved with patience. The museum expanded. I trained younger hands. Sometimes a map would come across my desk marked with ports whose names I recognized from your stories. I traced them lightly and felt the old ache stir and settle.

Years later I returned to the harbor on a morning much like the one you left. The light fell the same way. The gulls cried. A ship prepared to depart. I watched strangers embrace and separate. When the ship moved out I felt no urge to follow. The light was beautiful and complete without me in it.

I turned away carrying my shoes and walked back into the town. The harbor sounds faded behind me. I understood then that not following had been a choice made out of love as much as fear and that some summers teach us how to stay.

That evening I opened the windows and let the last light spill across the room. I stood in it briefly then stepped back into shade and felt at last that both belonged to me.