Oh Micca, I am standing at the deserted dock, still waving my tear-spotted hankie as your ship nears the bright horizon of the Outermost West. I can't sing right now, or I would sing the Rowing Song for you. I'm not doing words very well right now, either, but someday I will send you another poem.
May you have only happy wanderings from now on, Travel Gnome. You will be much missed.