She walked me to the waiting car, opened the door and stood on the pavement as we pulled away.
Through the rear window, I watched her grow smaller.
She remained there until the street turned and took her from my sight.
That was when I understood that the old custom had never truly been about fear of the road.
It was about refusing to let someone’s last view of home be a closed door.
The women in our family could not prevent the ships from sailing, the trains from leaving or the planes from crossing the ocean.
They could not promise that everyone would return.
But they could walk beside the person who was leaving.
They could witness the departure.
They could stand at the gate and say, without words: You did not vanish.
I saw you go.
You were loved all the way to the edge of home.
