A young man, a traveler himself with a pack full of maps, sat beside her. "You’ve spent your life wandering, yet you’re still here," he remarked. "Didn't you ever want to arrive?"
She didn’t carry a child in her arms, but rather a heavy, cedar-lined trunk strapped to a small wooden cart. Every morning, as the fog rolled off the Atlantic, Elora would begin her walk. She didn’t head toward the market or the docks; she simply walked until the sun dipped below the horizon, often ending up in a different thicket or cliffside than the day before. A Mother of No Destination
"A mother looks after her own," she whispered. "But who looks after those who belong nowhere? I carry them with me. As long as I am moving, they are still traveling. As long as I have no destination, they are never 'lost'—they are simply on their way." A young man, a traveler himself with a
For forty years, Elora walked. She became a living ghost of the coastline, a rhythmic presence that the villagers eventually used to time their own lives. When she finally grew too old to pull the cart, she sat on a bench overlooking the sea. Every morning, as the fog rolled off the
Elora stopped, her weathered face softening into a smile. "I am not going to a place," she said, her voice like dry leaves. "I am tending to the journey itself."
Elora was a woman defined by the miles she had traveled, though she had never once looked at a map. In the seaside village of Oakhaven, they called her the "Mother of No Destination."
Elora looked at the horizon, where the sky and sea were indistinguishable. "Arrival is an ending," she said. "But love is a continuous road. I stayed a mother to the restless, and in doing so, I was never alone."