Memorial Tattoo

A good amount of the time that I spend thinking of Steve, I spend thinking about how I failed him. How I should have saved him. The little things he loved that I should have done for him more often. The big things I vetoed so we could save for a future we now won't have, that I should have enthusiastically agreed to do. A million ways to feel like a bad wife.

Steve would hate that I do this.

My number one head-shrinker tells me it's survivors guilt. Makes sense. I'm here, he's not, and there's no one in my head to argue with my own bad counsel.

I positively light up when someone tells me about how much he used to brag on me or how much he used to gush on his love for me. Leaves me with the warm and fuzzies for days. Those stories pull me out of my own cycling thoughts of failure and remind me - we had it good. He adored me as much as I adore him.

But those stories are few and far between. It just doesn't come up in conversation very often. So I decided to go and get my own reminder:



Those are his words, his signature, in his own handwriting. I pulled it from the bottom of the card he gave me on our six year wedding anniversary.



And now I can look down and remind myself - we had it good. We adored each other. Every day we woke up and choose each other all over again.

And all those bad thoughts I carry around in my head?

They can just fuck off.