To the Sailor's (Former) Wife

Go out and meet her (or it, if you so prefer--only you can decide her title, now that your sailor is gone). Go alone, and don't pay attention to those beautiful frivolities that adorn her. The rocks, the sand, and the sky don't matter. They were just means to an end--no need to waste your emotions on them.

Wade, don't swim. It'll be too much. She'll be cold like ice you've never experienced, but in time, you'll numb--first your feet, then the rest of you.

(Except for your ankles--your ankles will be last, strangely enough. Don't worry about this--she's a bitch.)

There will probably be wind. Be prepared. It'll feel like a slap, but you'll stand there with her ice at her feet and her breath on your face. You might cry. But know that the sailor's wife cries not because her sailor is leaving but because he has chosen someone else over her--again, again, and again. For you, my dear, the agains are finite.