Back when gaslamps lit the streets of New Orleans, sailors would go to sea and their loves would wait for their return.
Most came back to port on schedule, or close to it.
Others were delayed by storms, pirates… so many dangers.
When a ship was due, their loves came to the docks and met them as they arrived, walking down the gangplank, that moment.
Or, if they didn’t arrive, waiting.
Late one day… two… a week… a month.
Sometimes, the harbormaster wrote that worst of all fates: “LOST.”
And their hearts would sink, down… sink below the waves forever.