Twenty-one months. That’s how long it took to not cry in remembrance. Twenty-one months.
It has taken twenty-one months to feel actual control over this ship; more control than simply steering her off the reefs and away from the deeps. It has taken every second of every day to get here.
You have been gone for twenty-one months. I would not be the person I am right now without you dying the way you did when you did. Oh I might have gotten here eventually. Perhaps.
How do I reconcile this feeling, this absolute truth? I don’t feel guilt, or remorse for knowing this. I rarely feel those things anymore, if ever. Not for lack of empathy but simply because I no longer do things that would engender that response.
It’s fucking freeing.
The Salty Widow 